


Oxytocin

by WouldItWere



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alcohol, Angst, Awkward situations, Christmas, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff, Forced Proximity, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione and Pansy are awesome, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Past Violence, Insomnia, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-Loathing Draco Malfoy, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy/Unconscious Sex, Slow Burn, Therapy, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Draco Malfoy, Touch-Starved Harry Potter, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and are literally the only reasons Harry and Draco survive let's be real, because Harry and Draco are awkward as hell, but like it's fun the whole time, deliberately kept Draco's trauma ambiguous, flangst, forced bed sharing, gay confusion, idiots to lovers, showering, so you can imagine as little or as much violence and abuse as you want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 98,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WouldItWere/pseuds/WouldItWere
Summary: Draco Malfoy cannot sleep. If he keeps going like this, he will go mad, or die, or both.For some reason, though, he can sleep whenever Harry Potter is with him. And Harry Potter is nothing if not a helper to those in need.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 1066
Kudos: 2652





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic is named for the hormone responsible for bonding, affection, happiness, pleasure, and trust. It gets released when you cuddle.

**Draco**

Draco Malfoy could not sleep.

It wasn’t a completely new occurrence, really. Sixth year, he couldn’t sleep because of ever-present terror at the Dark Lord’s growing power, and because of the dreaded tasks Draco had to perform under threat of his and his family’s brutal murder. The next year, he couldn’t sleep because of the bloody war and all the horrors each new day and night gifted him. Then, he couldn’t sleep because of his trials and everything the war’s aftermath brought with it.

And now, during the special eighth year of schooling they’d all been granted to attend, he lay in his Hogwarts dormitory bed and remained awake.

He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d actually gotten a good night’s sleep. He didn’t know when the last time he’d so much as dozed off was. His mind raced constantly, a never-pausing stream of anxiety.

He’d taken to keeping the lights on at night, too. Shadows toyed with his brain, and darkness made every fear worse.

He had lived with that monster and all his supporters in his house. Where Draco slept was no such thing as safe. Where Draco _breathed_ was no such thing as safe.

And so, Draco Malfoy could not sleep.

* * * * *

“Draco,” said Pansy one morning in late September. “Your hand is shaking.”

It took him a moment to process her words. He looked down at where his hand was holding his tea. Yes, he supposed the beverage was rippling a bit.

“ _Draco_ ,” her voice said again. He wasn’t sure why. Oh, actually, he’d probably been staring at his tea for an unnaturally long amount of time. He had a tendency to stare at things and lose focus nowadays.

“How much sleep did you get last night?” she demanded, pursing her lips as though poised to scold him however he answered.

He shrugged noncommittally.

“Why do I feel like I’m always asking you that question?” she proceeded to scold him.

He shrugged again. “Stop asking, then, if it bothers you so much.”

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake. Look, we all get nightmares, but…”

“Just leave it, Pansy. I don’t want to talk.”

He turned resolutely back to his breakfast and ignored her. Yes, he was distantly aware that he was so short with her because the insomnia had shot his temper to hell. But knowing the cause didn’t make it any less true. He did not want to talk, and he did not want to be lectured, and he did not want to hear about all the ways he was ruining things for himself.

He didn’t need to sleep. His body didn’t deserve it, anyway.

And maybe, if he stayed awake long enough, he’d damage himself so thoroughly he would finally have adequate punishment for how he’d acted his whole life. Or at least maybe he would become so overtired he’d stop needing to think or feel entirely. Wouldn’t _that_ be a blessing.

* * * * *

“Hey,” whispered Theo one afternoon while Draco was reading in the library. “You look like shit.”

Draco rolled his eyes and went back to his book.

“When was the last time you slept?” Theo pressed.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Draco shrugged. He did a lot of shrugging lately.

“That’s pretty fucked up.”

Draco shrugged again and continued reading.

* * * * *

Pansy and Theo tried to make him see Madam Pomfrey. He would do no such thing.

“She could prescribe you some Dreamless Sleep and this whole thing would be solved,” Pansy argued. Draco refused.

Then, one evening in early October, he was sipping tea in the eighth year common room, and his vision began to blur.

The next thing he knew, he awoke tucked into his bed, and the timepiece on his nightstand told him he’d been asleep for three hours.

Pansy and Theo ran into his room when they heard him screaming. They shouted at him frantically, jumping on either side of his bed and prying Draco’s hands away from himself. He was tearing at his hair, trying to scratch down his face. He was sobbing uncontrollably, unable to breathe.

“Draco, you’re having a panic attack,” they tried to tell him. It sounded like at least one of them was crying.

Draco could barely hear them over the roaring in his ears. Asleep for three hours, oh _Merlin_ … the lights off, alone, anyone could have… he was…

He sobbed so hard he started to choke, and they pulled him into a better position so he could breathe, so he could retch if he needed to.

They apologised profusely. They never tried to slip him a Sleeping Draught again.

* * * * *

“ _Lumos_ ,” Draco said as he entered his room, not surprised when the lights stayed off. He hadn’t been able to cast a proper enchantment in weeks, and now even the most basic spells were lost to him. He’d made his peace with it now, too tired and numb to feel one way or the other about it.

He lit the candles in the room manually, and barely flinched when in his carelessness he burned his finger.

* * * * *

“Malfoy.”

Slowly, Draco looked up. Potter was standing next to his desk in whatever class this was. Potions, maybe—he couldn’t remember what time or day it was, and when he tried to assess the setting of the room around him, the desks blurred and changed colour.

“What,” Draco said with a glare, voice croaking slightly.

“Slughorn told us to go find partners, and your books are in my way.”

Draco looked down. Yes, his bag was in the aisle, and he supposed his books had fallen out and covered a large area of floor.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Potter’s voice snapped. Oh, Draco had been staring at the floor again. “Pick up your shit so I can walk. Or are you too busy writing your…” Potter trailed off. Then, he sounded confused. “What the hell _are_ you writing, anyway?”

Draco glanced back at his notes. He couldn’t read them—letters and numbers hadn’t stayed still when he looked at them for a while now. And besides, Draco doubted he’d written them legibly in the first place. What was more, he could barely even remember using his quill. Merlin knew what the hell he’d been writing.

He shrugged.

Potter drew in a breath as though about to speak, but suddenly Slughorn was near them. “Harry! I’m impressed by your choice in partner.”

“What?” Potter began, but Slughorn talked over him.

“Could have stuck with one of the Gryffindors as usual, but I see you’re never above lending a helping hand to the more struggling students in class.”

“Oh no, Professor, we—”

“I look forward to seeing great things from you two on your midterm project!”

With that, Slughorn scuttled away.

Potter began to gripe to Draco about how bloody bullshit this was. Draco hummed in agreement whenever he remembered to respond. Yes, he did hate Potter… of course Draco didn’t want to work with him… et cetera. He just couldn’t really focus on the thread of conversation much, or think of words he could contribute to it, either. Luckily, Potter had always been good at babbling on, enough for two.

Draco would have added in a few nods, too, but nodding hurt his head too much.

* * * * *

He and Potter met up to work at the end of the week.

Honestly, Draco hadn’t even remembered they had scheduled anything. He neither updated nor checked his calendar anymore—and it wasn’t like he usually had anything planned for which he would _need_ his calendar, anyway. But when Potter knocked sharply on his door that evening, Draco mechanically opened it and admitted Potter without a word, not even considering all the reasons why that could ever be dangerous.

“Your room is messier than Seamus’s,” Potter said by way of greeting.

“Thanks,” Draco sneered automatically. Simple words like that, sarcastic remarks and the like, were easy to come up with and say without much thought. He didn’t even really have to pay attention to the conversation with Potter, to know more or less what word of a short, derisive remark to spout back. This was convenient, because he had extreme difficulty paying attention to everything nowadays.

Potter said something about their project, and Draco thought he was listening, but every time the Gryffindor finished a sentence, Draco realised had no idea just what the sentence had contained. Whatever. He took the book Potter shoved into his arms and sat down on his bed. Potter sat at the desk with his back to Draco, working in petulant silence.

They’d determined they’d take notes on half the chapters each and alert the other when they had questions. Draco would be damned if he let Potter know he didn’t understand anything, though, and he suspected Potter felt the exact same way, so he didn’t imagine there would be much speaking tonight. For once, their competitiveness served a beneficial purpose.

Draco stared at the meaningless symbols on the page and sighed, listening to Potter’s breathing. Slow, steady, stubbornly _existent_ breathing, no matter how many times people had tried to make the git die.

He remembered how that breathing had felt against him, as Potter’s torso had moved against Draco’s chest, when they’d raced to safety from the Fiendfyre on Potter’s broom.

Draco sighed again, resting his head against his pillow as he stared at the book he couldn’t read and listened to the Gryffindor breathe. Draco’s inhales and exhales slowed to match Potter’s.

His eyes drifted shut.

* * * * *

“Malfoy. Wake up.”

His eyes shot open and he jerked into a sitting position. _What the hell?_

“You were supposed to be working.” Potter glared at him.

“I... I was...” Draco mumbled, confused.

“You were sleeping,” Potter said accusatorily.

Draco was at a loss. _Sleeping?_ All signs would indicate as much. But… _how_? It had been so long since he’d slept that the feeling of opening his eyes and sitting up from a supine position was positively foreign to him.

“How long have I…?”

“If you’ve been sleeping this whole time, then an hour,” Potter groused. “Now I have to go to Quidditch practice, and you’ve done absolutely fuck all for our project.”

Draco blinked. “Er, it… was an accident?”

Potter huffed, unimpressed, and glared again. “Same time tomorrow, you prick.”

Draco nodded, unsure what else to do. He was still shaken by the idea he’d unintentionally slept for a whole hour. And more shaken, still, by the fact that he wasn’t having a panic attack because of it.

Potter stormed out, leaving Draco alone again.

Draco picked up his book to return it to his desk. His hand still shook when he did it, but he fancied the letters on the cover were almost legible now.

* * * * *

Potter came over again the next night. Draco had recharged enough during his hour-long stint in unconsciousness the day before that he could make a few snide comments this time, before he and Potter finally settled in to work.

Within five minutes, Draco was asleep.

* * * * *

**Harry**

Harry took notes as diligently as he could, desperate to get away from Malfoy’s presence as soon as possible. At least Malfoy was quiet behind him, so for now they weren’t outright trying to kill each other.

Twenty minutes after they’d begun working, though, the door to Malfoy’s room swung open.

“Draco, do you think— _Potter_? What are you doing here?” It was Pansy Parkinson. As if this day could have gotten any worse.

Her face twisted in shock and apprehension at the sight of him. Well, that was fine, because Harry wasn’t exactly pleased to see her pug-like scowl either.

She opened her mouth as though to demand why he was in her beloved Draco’s bedroom, but then her eyes fell on the bed behind Harry and she quite literally gasped.

“Listen, Parkinson, I—”

“ _Shhhh!_ ” she hissed dramatically, finger to her lips.

Harry turned fully, to actually see what she was looking at, and promptly filled with outrage. Malfoy had fallen asleep again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“ _Shhhhhh!_ ” Parkinson demanded again. “Don’t you _dare_ wake him.” How a person could sound so threatening while her voice was whispered as quietly as a mouse, Harry had no idea.

“We’re supposed to be working on a project together,” Harry hissed back.

“I don’t care if you’re supposed to be meeting with the Minister.” She was staring at Malfoy with a look of awe. “He hasn’t slept in Merlin-knows-how-long. I never thought I’d see him looking so peaceful again. Did you Stun him? Potter, if you hurt him, I swear to Salazar…”

“I didn’t Stun him! I didn’t do anything. I’m _trying_ to work, and he’s _supposed_ to be helping me, but he keeps fucking falling asleep!”

“Be quiet!” she snapped. And then, Harry’s words evidently caught up with her, because suddenly her jaw dropped. “‘ _Keeps_?’”

“Er, yeah, he fell asleep yesterday, too.”

She gasped again, and clapped a hand over her mouth as though to stifle a more hysterical sound. When she deemed herself calm enough, she removed her hand and demanded, “How on _earth_ did you manage to get him to fall asleep two days in a row?”

Harry fidgeted, uncomfortable. “I don’t know? It’s not like it was on purpose.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Haven’t you noticed he’s been unwell? He’s pale as a ghost, and most of the time he seems so out of it that I fear he’ll drop dead any moment.”

The fact was, Harry had noticed. But he’d been trying his best to think about other things besides Draco Malfoy, because thinking about Draco Malfoy was a habit that needed constant effort to kick. Still, in the moments when Harry did let himself contemplate him, he couldn’t deny that the other boy looked positively deathly.

“Poor thing literally shook off a Sleeping Draught,” Pansy continued. “It was supposed to last him five hours at least, and he woke up after three, kicking and screaming.”

Harry’s eyes widened despite himself. “Kicking and screaming?”

She nodded gravely. “Of course, it’s none of _your_ business. But I’ll be damned if I let you cause a racket and wake him up any earlier than necessary.”

Harry bit his lip, nodding. “All right, I won’t wake him again.”

Her eyes flashed. “You woke him yesterday?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Potter—”

“I didn’t know, okay? It’s not my fault he’s got some sort of—”

“Whatever insensitive thing you’re going to say,”—she raised a hand—“don’t.”

Harry folded his arms. He looked down guiltily. Then she made his head jerk up in confusion with her next words.

“And oh, Merlin, did he have another panic attack when he woke up?”

“Er, no? Not as far as I know.”

She stared at him, eyes wide and expression unreadable. “Trust me, you’d know.”

Something tense passed in the room. Harry’s skin prickled.

“Got it.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er, all right then? I’ll just go.” He stood up and started toward the door. “Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Wait a second, Potter,” she said, stepping sideways to block his path. “Listen, I’m not joking when I say Draco really hasn’t slept in Merlin-knows-how-long. If he keeps up like this much more, he’ll go mad, or die, or both.” She appeared to be thinking very quickly as she spoke, and although Harry was confused as hell, he knew enough to recognise how dangerous that was. Still, he did not make up his mind soon enough to push her to the floor and escape, so she had the time to keep talking.

“I don’t know why or how he’s managed to fall asleep two days in a row with you here, but I’m not about to question it so long as it _works_. I know this is a strange request, but would you… would you please stay here with him? For just a while longer?”

Oh fuck no. Harry did not want to. He did not want to even slightly.

But Parkinson was looking at him with such earnestness, and he knew how scared she must be for her friend. And as much as he didn’t like Malfoy, certainly the prat didn’t deserve to die of sleep deprivation. That was a form of _torture_ , after all. And Harry had seen enough torture to last a lifetime.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing his temples.

For the most bizarre of moments, Parkinson actually _smiled_ at him.

* * * * *

Malfoy slept for two and a half hours.

Harry was about ready to tear his own hair out from boredom, sitting alone in that room with a sleeping Draco Malfoy. He knew he was accustomed to asking himself, _Why do things always happen to me?_ , but he felt like this situation might just take the cake. How was this his life?

Finally, Malfoy jerked awake. He gasped dramatically.

“P-Potter? What are you—?”

“Nothing. Just sitting,” Harry said tersely. Sure, maybe he wouldn’t attack Malfoy, and maybe he pitied him quite a bit for the whole insomnia thing. But that didn’t mean Harry had to _like_ the git. “You?”

“I… I don’t know.” Malfoy looked lost for a moment, and Harry had the sudden, inexplicable urge to think of Malfoy as _cute_. This was an incredibly unwelcome thought, and Harry shoved it away immediately. “What…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said, grateful to finally be able to leave. “Good night, Malfoy.”

“Er, I…” Malfoy trailed off. His eyes really got very wide and bright when he was unsure of himself, Harry noticed. “How long?”

“Not long,” Harry said nonchalantly, to soften what would surely be quite a blow to hear. Learning he’d passed out for two and a half hours in front of someone he hated would undoubtedly come as an unpleasant shock to Malfoy. “Are you, er, feeling better?”

Malfoy blinked at him and didn’t answer.

They stared at each other for a few moments, neither knowing what to do about the other.

Finally, Harry broke the eye contact. “All right, so I’d better get going.”

“Okay,” Malfoy said softly. _Not cute_ , Harry scolded himself in his head. Merlin, he had to get out of there. “Erm, same time tomorrow?”

Harry nodded automatically. And then he thought about it, and almost backtracked and said no.

But he remembered his conversation with Parkinson, her concern and her outright begging for Harry’s continued presence. Plus, they really _did_ have to work on their project, this absurd distraction be damned. “Sure thing, Malfoy.”

Malfoy gave a nod and Harry left.

Merlin, Harry needed a Butterbeer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Draco**

Draco didn’t understand what was happening to him. He hadn’t been able to sleep for days, weeks, months, years—it was all a blur of tossing and turning, of sleepless nights and restless dreams, culminating in this most recent stretch of not sleeping _at all_ —and all of a sudden he dropped, the minute he was supposed to work on an assignment with Harry sodding Potter? It made absolutely no sense.

But he knew it couldn’t continue. They had a project to finish, and what was more, he didn’t _want_ to fall asleep next to Potter. He didn’t like Potter enough to share air with him on any occasion, and to sleep in his presence meant opening himself up to the ultimate kind of vulnerability. This was simply not on.

“Potter,” Draco said the next day at breakfast. Yes, he cared enough about this that he was actually braving a walk up to the Gryffindor table to make his opinion known. “How about we just work on our own sides of the project separately, and reconvene at the very end to put them together?” It was not what the project was designed for, and their mark would surely suffer as a result, but so be it.

Potter had glanced up at Draco when he approached, and those bright green eyes staring at him made Draco’s heart flutter strangely. Whatever. He still felt slightly dizzy at all times, but those few hours of sleep the past two nights had helped to clear his head, at least enough that he could push past such thoughts and focus on what mattered more.

“All right, Malfoy,” said Potter slowly. “If… you’re sure.”

Draco scoffed. “Of course I’m bloody well sure. What, hoping you’d be able to cheat off of me?”

“ _Me_ cheat off _you_?” Potter snorted. “You’re the one who….” But then he broke off.

“What?” Draco demanded when Potter didn’t continue. Potter had better not verbally acknowledge what he was about to verbally acknowledge, or _so help Draco…_ “I’m the one who _what_ , Potter?”

Potter backed off. “Nothing. I’ll see you later, ferret.”

“See you later, scarhead,” Draco spat back.

Potter fixed Draco with a glare. Draco gladly reciprocated it, and then turned around with a huff and went back to the Slytherin table.

* * * * *

Draco tried to work. He really did. He looked between the assignment rubric and his textbook what must have been over fifty times. He stared at the words and thought he could read them. Then he looked away and found he couldn’t remember a thing.

He repeated this process again and again until his eyes glazed over and his teeth began to chatter. Everything was fuzzy, jittery. He sat up and stared blankly out the window, faintly registering as the sky outside went dark and darker, and then became light again.

* * * * *

“Hey, Draco,” said Pansy in the morning. Draco winced at the sound of her too-cheery voice. His head hurt.

“Hello,” he grumbled.

Her smile faltered. “Er, how are you?”

He groaned and didn’t dignify that question with a response.

“You… you didn’t get any sleep last night, did you?” she asked warily.

He outright scoffed now. “Of course I didn’t. You don’t need to keep reminding me all the fucking time.”

She looked momentarily hurt by his snappishness, but she didn’t comment on it. “You slept a bit the night before last,” she said. “And the one before that.”

He whipped his head up to face her—and regretted it when the room spun. “How do you know anything about—?”

“Never mind that,” she cut him off. And of course that was a stupid thing of her to say, because of course Draco _would_ mind that, very much, but she rushed on before he could press, and soon his addled brain forgot it. “What were you doing last night?”

“Trying to work on my project.”

“Was Potter there?”

“No, why?” Draco asked, taken off guard by the question.

“Nothing, just… excuse me.”

With that, Pansy jumped up, grabbed her bag, and ran off.

 _Insane creature_ , Draco thought, staring at the seat she'd just vacated. His head hurt too much for this.

He massaged his temples and took a deep swig of his tea.

* * * * *

**Harry**

“What do you mean you didn’t fucking meet with him last night, Potter?”

“I mean I didn’t meet him last night! He didn’t want to!”

“That’s a bullshit excuse!”

“Oh, _pardon me_ for actually listening when someone I don’t like tells me we should do our work separately. What the hell would you have done?”

“I would have agreed not to meet. But you’re not me, Potter. You’re not anyone.”

Harry blinked at that.

This was Pansy Parkinson, the girl who had openly tried to hand him over to Voldemort. And she was telling him that, once again, Harry had to be the better person and do good things for people who wouldn’t do the same for him.

And she had a fucking point.

“For Godric’s sake,” Harry snapped, running an exasperated hand through his hair. “What am I supposed to do? Break down his door and tie him to the bed until he does what I want?”

Wait.

He willed his cheeks not to go red as his own words filled his ears. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like _that_. He’d meant his question earnestly. Not like…

For her part (thank Merlin), Parkinson didn’t comment on the other possible connotation of Harry’s words. “Just come by for whatever reason. Have a question or something. Anything. If I’m right, he’ll fall asleep pretty soon after, and by Circe… he needs it. So much. I’m really scared for him.”

Harry sighed. Fuck, the Fates really did owe him big-time for this.

* * * * *

This was ridiculous. He was standing outside of Draco Malfoy’s bedroom, knocking on the door, and had been doing so for the past three minutes. He was seriously about to lose it.

Finally, _finally_ , the door opened. Malfoy stared at him.

“Sorry,” Malfoy said, facial expression blank. “I didn’t hear the door.”

Harry fought to keep from exploding. “How… did you not hear…”

“I don’t know. There was a sound from far away, and then I realised it was going on for quite some time, and then I thought it might be real life and not in my head.”

Malfoy paused, blinking, as though he hadn’t expected himself to be so honest.

This was uncomfortable indeed. Harry shuffled on his feet awkwardly.

Malfoy stared at him for a few moments, eyes unfocused. It seemed he would be content to stand there staring off until Harry said or did something. “Er, I had a question,” Harry tried. “About the assignment.”

Malfoy seemed to shake himself, eyes coming slightly more into focus. “Oh. Yes. What question?”

“Right. Well… may I come in?”

Malfoy stepped aside, almost automatically, and Harry entered the room before Malfoy could realise how easily he’d just let his rival into his bedroom without a proper excuse.

Harry closed the door behind himself and Malfoy didn’t even protest. Fuck, he was really out of it.

“Have you gotten any of the assignment done yet?” Harry asked him.

Malfoy nodded slowly. “Here.” He motioned over to his desk, where a few sheets of parchment sat. On each of them were scrawls and squiggles of ink that seemed to have been doodled by a toddler. Harry doubted they were even English characters.

“Er, Malfoy…”

“Shut up. I’m working on it.”

“Right, of course,” Harry said, as placatingly as he could. “Here, let’s work a bit more now.”

“What? No. We said we’d work separately.”

“Yes, but… I’m confused. It’ll only take a moment, and when we start working I’ll be able to ask you my questions.”

Malfoy seemed to be trying to think through a terrible headache. Trying to understand which aspect of Harry’s request was bullshit—because it was bullshit—and argue against it. But he couldn’t, because he hadn’t slept in forever. “You… you must already know your questions,” he said finally.

“I will when we work.”

“Then why are you here now?”

“Because I want to ask.”

“But…”

Harry had hoped that talking in circles and giving half-answers would work to confuse Malfoy.

…And he was right. Malfoy shook his head again, then snapped, “Fine,” and walked over to grab his parchment.

Harry went to the desk and sat, waiting for Malfoy to lie down on the bed so he could get the hell to sleep and they could be done with this mess.

But Malfoy didn’t move. He stood near Harry’s shoulder, looking over to see what Harry would read or write. After a few minutes of this, Harry asked uneasily, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting to see the confusing things so you can ask your questions,” Malfoy replied. And, damn him, that was a good answer.

Harry thought fast. “Actually, this chair is really uncomfortable. Let’s go sit on the bed.”

Malfoy began to protest, and Harry felt a bit ashamed at how he was acting. It was so impolite, of course; this whole thing was pretty fucked up overall. Forcing himself into Malfoy’s room, demanding they both get onto Malfoy’s bed… why, if anyone did that to Harry, he knew what he would think. And he’d be fairly outraged.

But this was no ordinary circumstance.

“Come on,” he said, walking over to Malfoy’s bed and trying to act as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

Malfoy stared at him, brow furrowed. He looked annoyed, and maybe even like he wanted to argue, but Harry was already sitting down—fuck, this was such a weird situation—and slowly Malfoy seemed to forget what he was upset about.

“Okay,” he said quietly, albeit a bit petulantly, and sat.

Harry released a breath. All right, one step down. Now all Malfoy had to do was fall asleep.

They sat awkwardly on either side of the bed. Harry stared at Malfoy, and Malfoy stared first at Harry and then at the floor, eyes unfocused.

After a full minute passed, Harry finally said, “Do you want to lie down?”

Malfoy’s head whipped up to face Harry. Well, shit, that had been presumptuous as hell.

“I—I meant—”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Potter, but no I most certainly don’t want to lie down. We are working on our project. What is wrong with you?”

Harry felt his face going red. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Could he just tell Malfoy the real reason he was here?

Malfoy did not look like he would be happy to hear that at all.

“Er. I’m just uncomfortable sitting like this,” he tried.

“Well I’m uncomfortable with this whole thing,” Malfoy snapped. Shit, okay, apparently being pissed off served to wake Malfoy up a little. This was the opposite of going well.

He wondered if he should just hex Malfoy to sleep. Malfoy was upset and unstable, so he might retaliate and really hurt Harry if he got his wand out, even with a badly-executed spell. But, his reaction time was severely slowed, so maybe Harry could cast before Malfoy even knew what hit him.

Still, Harry had no idea if hexing him would result in actually restful sleep. It might not do anything at all except get Harry into trouble if Malfoy reported him for it later.

Harry sat there for a moment, at a loss for what to do, before he finally decided, to hell with it.

He swung his legs up and dropped his head onto a pillow.

Malfoy stared down at him incredulously. “What are you doing?”

“Lying down. It’s nice.”

“Fuck you, Potter. Get off my bed.”

“You should lie down, too.”

“No!”

“Suit yourself. All the comfort for me, then.”

Malfoy glared, proving his lack of sleep had not dulled that particular talent of his. But, telling Malfoy that Harry was having more fun than him at something did the trick. Harry really did know how to get the perfect reactions out of him, he supposed with a flair of pride.

With a grumble, Malfoy lay down.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s nice,” Harry said, even though it was in fact ridiculous.

They stared at the ceiling quietly. Minutes passed.

When Harry finally looked over at him, he saw that Malfoy was asleep.

* * * * *

Malfoy slept for five hours this time. Without really meaning to, Harry dozed off for a little, too. It was a very comfortable bed, after all. And Harry had nothing better to do while he lay there and waited.

It was actually sort of pleasant.

He woke up before Malfoy. This meant that he saw for himself how, when Malfoy awoke, the first thing he did was let out a pained-sounding gasp. Then he glanced around, looking shocked and confused again, and then annoyed.

He shooed Harry out of the room at once. But he didn’t have any sort of panic attack, and Parkinson had said if he had one, Harry would know.

And Malfoy’s eyes seemed clearer now than they had in a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a character is forced on a bed in this chapter (not in a harmful or malicious way at all, but I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable if they're not prepared for that)

**Draco**

Potter came by the day after that, too. Draco really had to put a stop to this.

The extra sleep Draco had gotten last night—five hours, _how?_ —had done Draco enough good that he no longer felt like he would collapse at any moment. That was helpful, because when Potter came by this time, Draco wasn’t tired enough to fall asleep right away. He was also able to argue with him, and refused to listen when Potter tried to make him lie down again. (Which… what the hell was that about, anyway?)

Potter stayed for an hour, and every time he tried to talk about anything other than the project, Draco insulted him. It felt just like the good old days.

Finally, Potter got angry enough and stormed out. Which was brilliant, really. Draco gave himself a high five.

* * * * *

**Harry**

“Did Draco get any sleep yesterday?”

Harry’s hand tightened dangerously on his quill.

He was in the library, attempting to focus on drafting a game plan for the upcoming Quidditch match, and trying his best not to think about Draco sodding Malfoy. Trust Pansy Parkinson to barge in and ruin it.

“How should I know?” Harry replied brusquely, not looking up from his parchment.

“He didn’t sleep with you last night, did he?” she asked.

Harry’s face heated involuntarily. She couldn’t say it like that. That implied… which obviously wasn’t… why would she say it like that? Now Harry was thinking about… which was not at all a good idea to think about… oh _no_ …

“Potter. I asked you a question.”

Harry willed the heat in his cheeks to subside. It mostly did not work. “No. He was his regular git self, so I got fed up and left.”

She let out a frustrated growl and plopped down into the seat next to him. For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t anyone just leave Harry alone? Didn’t he fight a bloody war so he could finally get some peace and quiet?

“We literally just talked about this, Potter. I can’t believe you walked out on him, and left him to fend for himself _again_. What is wrong with you? I saw him at breakfast today and he looked like death, and it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?!” Harry shrieked. Madam Pince responded with such a murderous _shhhhh_ that Harry thought the librarian might hex him. “My fault?” he demanded again in a whisper. “Since when did it become my responsibility to help someone who’s been nothing but a dick to me since the moment I met him? I’m not his babysitter. I’m not even his _friend_!”

Parkinson stared into his eyes, gaze unwavering. “Because you are the person who helps people. It’s in your job description. And now you know that you’re the only one who can help Draco, and if you don’t, whatever happens to him will be because you decided you’d rather let him whither away than slightly inconvenience yourself. And I know you’re too bloody good and perfect to let that be on your conscience.”

Harry’s quill snapped in his hand. He threw the pieces onto the table furiously. It was all he could do to keep from whipping out his wand on her.

When he finally got his breaths under control, he managed to say through gritted teeth, “I don’t believe it. You, of all people, are trying to guilt trip me.”

“Yes, I am.”

When Harry didn’t reply to that, just stared at her incredulously and with an eye probably twitching, she sighed and looked down at the table. “Look, I’m sorry," she said softly. "I know I sent you that letter after the trials, but I could do to say it a few more times, or a hundred times, or for the rest of my life. I’m _sorry_. I was stressed and scared and I thought everyone was going to die, and I didn’t understand anything about the implications of what I was saying. Obviously I’m glad you won. Indescribably glad. You saved the fucking _world_.”

She looked back at him, and the next thing Harry knew, she was grabbing onto his hands and begging desperately, “Please help him. You save people. It’s what you do. Please save Draco. You’re the only one who can.”

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Or his eyes. Or anything at all, really.

“I…” he began, unsure how to finish.

“Please,” she repeated. She looked like at any moment she might start crying. “I know he’s been difficult. Especially to you. But he’s changed, and though he probably wouldn’t admit it to you, he regrets the way he’s acted. One night he got drunk and told me if he ever has children, he’ll raise them without all the fucked up pureblood ideals he was raised with. He said he wanted them to be as tolerant and good as you.”

“I— _really_?”

“Yes!” She leaned forward, eyes boring into his. “Potter, I’m telling you, he needs this. He’s always been sensitive. This might be the last straw. And… you officially have carte blanche do to whatever it takes to get him back to normal again. Whatever you do, I’ll support you. You’re our only hope now.”

Harry looked heavenward, then dropped his forehead onto the table in defeat.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

Parkinson’s squeal of delight was so high-pitched that Madam Pince finally marched over and kicked them out of the library.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Potter showed up at Draco’s room again that night.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked. He was getting sick of this routine.

“I’m here to work on the project, obviously.”

“Nice try. You didn’t even bring books.”

This actually gave Potter pause. But, to his credit, he recovered quickly. “I’ll use yours.”

“You most certainly will not. Get out, Potter.”

“No. We are working.” He shoved past Draco and into the room. Draco tried to push him back, but Potter just shrugged him off. Damn it. (Draco’s strength had been pitiful recently. It was a wonder he was still able to lift his bag each day to go to class. Yet another side effect of his lack of sleep—although, then again, what wasn’t a side effect of his lack of sleep?)

Draco huffed, frustrated and annoyed. Well, if Potter thought Draco would cooperate, he was sorely mistaken. “I refuse to work with you,” Draco said obstinately. “I told you I wanted to do things separately, so that is what we will do.”

“Funny. I don’t remember this partnership being a dictatorship, Malfoy.”

“Oh, as if your judgment has ever been better than mine.”

Potter just raised an eyebrow, and Draco willed his face not to redden. So Potter’s judgment had been better than Draco’s on quite a few occasions, often of the _Extremely Important_ and _Life or Death_ varieties. Whatever. Semantics, really. Draco quickly changed the subject.

“The point is, our working together clearly isn’t... working,” Draco said. “I keep… that is… for some reason…” He didn’t want to admit he’d fallen asleep. It was too vulnerable a thing, even to acknowledge. “I just can’t focus.”

“Is that so?” Potter said. He wasn’t even looking at Draco. He was walking over to Draco’s bed and—what on earth?— _sitting down_ on it.

Draco blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting. Come on, you should try it.”

“I know what sitting feels like, Potter.”

“Then you’ll know it’s very enjoyable. Come on.”

“No!”

“More for me, then.”

Draco was outraged. Except, he knew how his outrage had ended last time, and he would not follow it to its previous conclusion. He would not join Potter on the bed, and he would _not_ fall asleep in front of him. “Fine. More for you.” And then a pause. “Except you shouldn’t even be here! Get out!”

“Absolutely not.”

Draco nearly screamed in frustration. Instead, he just crossed his arms and glared at Potter. Potter glared back.

They stared. Finally, Draco could take it no longer. “Fuck!” he finally shouted. “Fine!”

With that, he slammed the door behind him and marched over to the bed, sitting down. “If it will make you leave me alone, _here_. I am sitting. Now will you go?”

“Good,” Potter said, flashing a smile rare in its warmth, and rare in its being directed at Draco. It threw Draco off guard, enough that he forgot that Potter ignored his question.

There was a pause. Then, Potter said, “You should lie down now.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Draco yelled. “What is _wrong_ with you?!”

“Nothing,” Potter said. “Just lie down. You know it’s nice.”

“If you don’t knock it off, Potter…”

“Lie down.”

“No.”

“Lie down.”

“I will literally kill you if you ask again.”

So, Potter didn’t say anything. He just stared at Draco, and Draco stared back, and they stayed that way. Perhaps Potter was trying to wear him down the way he had before, by waiting until Draco got so frustrated that he simply complied just to make Potter stop pestering him. Except Draco was not about to let Potter win again, so he sat stock-still.

As the minutes dragged on and Draco refused to move, Potter’s face hardened more and more. Finally, the Gryffindor snapped.

“Lie down, Malfoy.”

By now, the sleep deprivation had made Draco forget his threat to kill him for the repeated request. But, he remembered enough to know he should refuse it. “No!”

“I said, lie down.”

“No!”

“I’ll make you.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you don’t lie down on your own then I’ll bloody _make you_.”

“No you most certainly won’t, you fucking prick!”

With that, Potter leaned over, grabbed him, and threw him onto his back.

“What the fuck?!” Draco shrieked, pushing himself to sitting back up, and starting to scramble away. Bad choice. With a groan of frustration, Potter surged after him and wrapped his arms around Draco from behind, trapping his arms to his sides.

Unable to stand up, he kicked and struggled, trying to shove Potter off, but Potter would not let go. He was pressing against Draco, and the next thing Draco knew, Potter was shoving him face-down into the mattress, flattening himself onto Draco’s body to hold him down.

“Let me go!” Draco screamed into the pillows.

“Stay down!” Potter yelled back.

“No!”

“Then _no_!”

Potter yanked Draco onto his side so his face was no longer suffocatingly pressed into the bed (so Potter didn’t want him to die of asphyxiation? Since when did Potter not want him dead?). Now, he and Potter were pressed back to front, Potter as the big spoon—though Draco would die before he allowed himself to think of this as “spooning”. Potter’s arms were wrapped tightly around Draco, still trapping him, and his legs were slung over Draco’s legs to keep him pinned.

They panted, spent from wrestling.

Now and then, Draco would try to make a break for it again. However, Potter would just press him further against the mattress and squeeze Draco closer into his chest, until Draco stopped struggling.

Draco could not understand what was going on. He kept trying to ask, but whenever he did, Potter just shushed him and told him to “Stay down”. It was infuriating. It was maddening.

And Potter’s embrace was warm and firm, and his chest moved against Draco’s back in a rather soothing way.

He didn’t know when he fell asleep.

But he did fall asleep. And when he woke up, it was morning. Potter was still lying behind him, and hadn’t moved away all night.

Draco gasped, jerking away. This time, Potter let him.

“Erm, morning,” Potter said, voice deeper than Draco had ever heard it. Draco tried not to focus on the sound.

Potter seemed rather groggy, though; he had probably woken up along with Draco. But Draco didn’t want to think about it too hard. This was mortifying.

Draco shook his head, not making eye contact. He grabbed his toiletries and shuffled out as quickly as he could. Luckily, by the time he returned to his room, Potter had finally left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: same as the previous chapter

**Draco**

“I think there’s something seriously wrong with me,” Draco grumbled as he plopped into the chair beside Pansy in the corner of the common room.

“What else is new?”

“Oh, good one. Ha bloody ha.”

“I wasn't joking, and neither were you. This is about the sleeping thing, isn’t it?”

Indeed it was. At least, it was about the sleeping thing as it specifically related to Harry Potter. The absurd fact that Draco couldn't help but fall asleep in front of the Gryffindor Git was distressing in every way. Draco felt so perplexed by the situation that he'd blurted out his concern to Pansy, despite how much of the subject he really wasn't ready to share.

“…Maybe,” he replied slowly, wanting to backtrack. He still could barely handle acknowledging the situation to himself in his head. And he had precisely no desire to actually tell Pansy how Potter had become involved at all. He was rapidly regretting bringing this up.

“And?” she prompted.

For days, he'd considered telling Pansy what had been happening with Potter. And, for days, he had talked himself out of it. As he sat here now, faced with Pansy's expectant look, he knew for sure. He couldn't possibly tell her about the new Harry Potter-shaped development in his life. No way in hell. He would get rid of the Gryffindor without anyone finding out but himself.

He shut down. “Nothing. It doesn't matter.” He'd opened the conversation because he'd simply wanted to get some of the stress and confusion off his chest, in a general sense. But, his best friend seemed prepared to make him follow through on discussing it, and his ability to do so was quickly shriveling up beneath his embarrassment and denial.

“No, really, Draco.” She paused, waiting for him to become more forthcoming. “Seriously, what is it?”

“Nothing. Just forget I said anything.”

“Is it about…?” she began, but she trailed off.

“What?” Draco asked, suddenly sure she had been about to say _Potter_. But she didn’t know, did she? She _couldn’t_ know. Could she?

“Never mind. You’re right; let’s forget you said anything.”

“But—”

“No, Draco. If you want to talk to me about why you’re not sleeping, and maybe brainstorm some ways to help the issue, then I’d be more than happy to discuss it. But, if not, then I’d rather we just not talk about it at all.”

Something about her behaviour was extremely suspicious, he thought suddenly. The way her whole demeanor had changed, the way she'd done a complete 180 and changed her mind seemingly mid-sentence. It was odd, more than odd, and Draco didn't trust it one bit.

He wanted to argue against what she'd said. But as he opened his mouth to try, he also realised that, like it or not, she was right.

He was not in any way prepared to discuss his insomnia on a deep level. Keeping his mouth shut and brooding was just about the only thing he _was_ prepared to do right now. And despite how much he wanted to petulantly complain about his frustrations, and to get to the bottom of whatever was making Pansy seem so shifty, what he wanted more than anything was to go on not acknowledging he needed any help at all.

Dammit, but Pansy was clever. Inconvenient though it was for him, he sort of loved that about her.

So, despite his own myriad misgivings, Draco followed her will and changed the subject. Luckily, it proved relatively easy for him to do. He just so happened to be getting pretty good at holding normal, coherent conversations again.

* * * * *

**Harry**

It was evening, and Harry was angry. No, not angry exactly, but frustrated, pent up. He’d just spent hours on the Quidditch pitch, and his team simply couldn’t get the hang of it today. To make matters worse, the pickup match they’d held against the Ravenclaws had ended in a total massacre. And some of his teammates actually _blamed_ _Harry_ for the defeat!

He showered, scrubbing harder than necessary. He felt tense all over, and no amount of hot water could fix it. He felt out of control, helpless in the face of people who weren’t listening to him.

At least there was one thing he knew how to do right.

* * * * *

He marched to Malfoy’s room. He flung open the door.

Malfoy was standing near the bed, evidently caught in the middle of pacing. Malfoy looked up at him, startled and immediately hostile. “Potter—”

Harry didn’t even pause to listen to what Malfoy would say. He just slammed the door behind him and stormed forward.

This was for Malfoy's own good, dammit, and Harry wasn't particularly interested in wasting time with tact right now. Malfoy wouldn't appreciate it anyway, nor would he cooperate any better with it.

“What the fuck are you—”

Harry grabbed him, spinning Malfoy’s body so his back was against Harry’s chest. He pulled Malfoy toward the bed and dragged him onto it, pinning the Slytherin's body down with his own.

Malfoy struggled and snarled at Harry, but Harry just held him between himself and the mattress, not budging. The whole ordeal, from door to bed, had only lasted a few seconds. Door, grab, bed, down. And now, Malfoy was against the pillows, and Harry had him safely in place, and that was that.

“Potter, I swear on your dead body—”

“Shut up.”

“Let me go, you bloody fucking—”

“Shut _up_.”

He hooked a leg over Malfoy’s to stop how the prat had been kicking at him. His arm around both of Malfoy’s, plus the extra weight as Harry lay slightly on top of him, kept Malfoy pressed down. He scooted closer, enough that his collarbone was flush against Malfoy’s neck, and rested his chin over Malfoy’s shoulder.

Malfoy was panting hard, sounding slightly furious, slightly exhausted, and slightly terrified, all in equal measure.

“It's okay,” Harry whispered in his ear.

“W-what?” Malfoy asked, seeming shocked.

“I said it's okay,” Harry repeated. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. Stop fighting and _just_ _let go_.”

Malfoy continued panting, his breath coming in quick gasps, laboured. “I… I…”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Do it, Malfoy. I’ve got you. It's all right. Come on.”

Malfoy shivered. Harry watched the goosebumps rise on the back of his neck, disappearing under his collar. Harry found himself wanting to know how far downward they traveled.

“Will you stay?” Malfoy asked quietly, voice cracking.

“Yes,” Harry answered firmly. He didn’t understand why Malfoy was asking, but it was the only available response. This was the only way. The sooner Malfoy accepted that, the better for everyone involved.

And besides. Something about the way Malfoy had asked the question nudged at Harry's mind. Though Harry couldn't help but notice it, he could scarcely believe it was true. But something about it... almost seemed like this was the answer Malfoy actually wanted.

Malfoy didn’t say anything else. Neither did Harry. They lay there in perfect silence, letting the air settle around them. Now and then, Malfoy would tense slightly, but when he did, Harry just squeezed him a little tighter, to remind him that he was still being held. And something about this, somehow, seemed to make Malfoy's tenseness go away each time.

They both slept through the night.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco hardly knew what to do with himself.

In the Great Hall, in class, through the corridor, all he could think about was Harry Potter. About the strange situations they found themselves in each night, about the way Potter’s body felt pressed tightly against Draco’s with no hope for escape.

He didn’t know how or why it had come to pass this way. But now it was this way, and it was all Draco could think about. Potter, squeezing him tight, his breath against Draco’s ear. _It's okay._ _I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere._ Will you stay? _Yes._

He wasn’t sure how to guard against it, or even how to ensure it. He could barely suppress a shiver upon wondering whether Potter would be back again that night.

If he had told himself a few weeks ago that this was something to consider, he wouldn’t have understood it, let alone believed it. He wouldn’t have had any idea how one _could_ engineer a situation resulting in Potter cradling him in his bed, even if Draco had wanted to. But somehow, it had become reality. And he didn’t even have to do anything to make it so.

His heart thrummed. He had no idea what was going on. But something in him couldn’t stop his mind from counting down the hours until nighttime again.

* * * * *

**Harry**

“I looked for you last night,” said Hermione at breakfast.

“You did?”

“Yes. Around eleven. I realised I left my quill set on your desk, and I needed to write to Ron. You weren’t in the eighth year common room, and when I went over to your bedroom, you weren’t there, either.”

Harry swallowed, deliberately keeping his eyes on his toast. Maybe if he played it off, she wouldn’t notice anything was strange. “Really.”

_Damn it, Harry. Of all the unconvincing things you could have said…_

“Yeah. Where were you?”

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged, waving his hand dismissively while his mind reeled through all the possible excuses that would not work on Hermione Granger.

“Harry,” she said, voice getting dangerously more severe. He couldn’t tell without looking at her face whether that meant she was warning him to tell her the truth, or getting worried about the possible things he wasn’t telling her and why not. And he did not want to look at her face right now.

“I… just, don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Harry.”

“Really! I swear everything is fine! I just don’t want to talk about it this minute.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

He sighed, finally looking at her. Her eyes were worried indeed. And apprehensive. And searching. And hurt. _Shit_. “Yes, Hermione. I love you loads, okay? But I promise I’m fine.”

“Is this about, you know…?” She paused, and for a heart-stopping second, Harry thought she was going to say _Malfoy_ , that she knew what was going on. But, the next moment, she finished her question with, “…Ginny?”

He was so startled he almost laughed. He had been so distracted by the Malfoy Situation that he had barely been thinking about his recent breakup with Ginny at all. “No, it is not about Ginny,” he said when he had caught his breath.

“Then what? Is it about the nightmares?”

“No, it’s not—” He broke off mid-sentence, suddenly perplexed. Come to think of it…

Huh. Actually, that was bizarre, he suddenly registered. He hadn’t noticed, because he’d been so distracted by the bizarreness of everything else going on, but in the past few days Harry hadn’t had a single nightmare. And that was insane, because before a few nights ago, he’d had them consistently for as long as he could remember.

At his silence, Hermione went on more urgently. “Harry, what is it? I’m getting really worried about you.”

“I know. And I truly, truly appreciate your concern,” he assured her. “But I swear everything is okay. Really weird, yeah, and bloody confusing, but I swear if I need help, you’ll be the first to know. I just… need some time alone to make sense of things myself.”

Her brows remained furrowed, but she seemed to sense the hope in Harry’s voice, because she sighed and nodded. She gave him an affectionate smile before dutifully changing the subject to talk about Ron’s recent letter and how the joke shop was faring.

While they talked, Harry couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Malfoy across the Great Hall. The blond was facing away, but he seemed to be actively participating in a conversation with Theodore Nott. His face had still seemed unhealthily pale this morning (under his blush, when he’d woken up in Harry’s arms and quickly scrambled out of the room). But, each day that went by that he slept—that Harry _made sure_ he slept—he seemed brighter, more alive. Harry couldn’t help but feel a surge of accomplishment at the thought.

* * * * *

That night, Harry sat alone in his room continually casting Tempus Charms, getting his affairs in order and waiting until Go Time.

He wrote a letter to Ron, enquiring after his welfare and telling him everything going on at Hogwarts (except for this newest development concerning a certain Draco Malfoy, which Harry would barely have been able to explain even if he had wanted to). He did some last-minute revising for his Transfiguration quiz the next day. He flipped through the copy of _The Quibbler_ Luna had sent him for its “fascinating article on auto-combustive turnips”.

At ten-thirty, he decided it was late enough, and headed over to Malfoy.

He opened the door to the bedroom, which he couldn’t help noticing was much cleaner than the pigsty he’d encountered when he’d first seen it. He entered to find Malfoy sitting on top of his blankets, wearing pyjamas and with gel-free hair. He’d actually gotten ready for bed.

When Harry stepped in, Malfoy immediately jumped up.

His eyes were wide. His spine was straight. His feet shifted unsurely—and he was barefoot. This shouldn’t have come as such a shock to Harry, seeing as it was nighttime, but it looked somehow incredibly intimate, and Harry felt momentarily amazed.

Malfoy looked so vulnerable, and so scared.

“Potter,” Malfoy said. His voice was aristocratic and supercilious as ever. But, underneath it, Harry could hear a faint tremor. An unsureness that he could finally detect, after years of assuming Malfoy was too much of a dick to warrant Harry analysing his voice for anything.

Harry closed the door. Malfoy startled a little.

“Evening, Malfoy.”

The other boy glared, which Harry was surprisingly fine with. He ignored it as he walked toward the bed and pulled away the covers. Malfoy stared at him.

“Anything else you need to do before you turn in for the night?” he asked.

Malfoy flinched. Harry noted this with surprise and an alarming amount of sympathy.

Then the blond began to splutter, defaulting into denial. “I am not going to—I have absolutely no intention of—”

“Oh, for Godric’s sake.” Harry had asked the question because he was trying to be considerate, but _okay_. Malfoy clearly still needed to avoid acknowledging this aloud. And if that was how Malfoy wanted to be, then fine, but Harry certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with his lack of cooperation right now.

He grabbed Malfoy and dragged him into the bed, throwing the covers aside and then back over them again. He pulled Malfoy against him. Malfoy struggled a few times, and Harry waited it out. Soon enough, Malfoy gave up.

They lay there in resolute silence. With this established, Harry finally allowed himself a moment to take stock of his position, and fully process where he was. The rushed speed and intense awkwardness of all of their nights together had made it so much easier to ignore in the past. But now that he was here, lying wrapped around the other boy in relative peace and silence, he had the chance to fully feel it.

He’d never really cuddled anyone before, he realised. And for that matter, he wasn’t really in the business of letting people touch him, period.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let anyone touch him, really touch him, besides a rare hug from Hermione or one of the Weasleys. It was… strange, having such close physical contact with someone. And such a sustained one, at that. What he was doing with Malfoy was absolutely foreign, and that had nothing to do with the fact that it was Malfoy. Harry couldn’t help but think of the hug Mrs. Weasley had given him after Cedric died. It had been the first time he’d ever felt a motherly hug, and the feeling had overwhelmed him with its newness, and with the way the comfort seemed to reach into his very soul.

The feeling had amazed him, but he’d never had that with anyone else, really. Hugging Ron and Hermione—and Ginny, when they’d been together—was nice and all, but the embraces had always been just the other side of cordial, not nearly tight enough or all-encompassing enough to make a difference. And they had always ended after a few moments, no matter what, anyway.

But, this?

He tightened his arms around Malfoy, letting himself soak up the feeling of the warm body clad in soft pyjamas. He felt his own tenseness begin to abate.

This was something different altogether. And he didn’t need to contemplate what that something was; all he had to know was that he’d been plagued by nightmares for as long as he could remember, and since he’d been sleeping in the same bed as Malfoy, the nightmares had disappeared.

Malfoy seemed to be relaxing, too, from what Harry could tell. He took a deep breath—letting himself appreciate the way Malfoy smelled at the nape of his neck—and got ready to let sleep take them both.

“ _Nox_ ,” he said, plunging the room in darkness.

He didn’t only hear it; he _felt_ it when Malfoy stopped breathing.

Harry waited a moment, but Malfoy didn’t start up again.

Harry shifted, half sitting up. “Are you all right?”

Malfoy didn’t answer.

Enough light spilled underneath the door from the hallway that Harry could make out Malfoy’s profile. His expression was twisted in fear.

“Malfoy. Malfoy, look at me.”

Reluctantly, his gaze slid to Harry.

“What’s wrong?”

Malfoy shook his head. “N—nothing, just…” His chest heaved a little. “Will you stay?”

That question again. Hearing it sent a _zing_ straight through Harry’s chest.

He still wasn’t sure which answer Malfoy wanted. However, Harry knew the only one he could give. “Absolutely.”

Malfoy stared at him a few seconds longer. Then, he nodded. “Promise?”

Harry lay back down, holding Malfoy more firmly against his chest. “Promise.”

“Okay.”

It was quiet. But, it was a sound Harry could replay again and again. Due to the current circumstances, he hadn’t bothered to hope for it, nor had he been expecting it at all.

But _fuck_ was consent positively brilliant.


	5. Chapter 5

**Harry**

Draco Malfoy was sheepish in the mornings.

Which was just as well, because Harry was very new to taking another person’s presence into account when he first woke up. Harry opened his eyes, and had to take stock of whose limbs were whose, make sure his erection wasn’t touching anything sentient, make sure he didn’t have drool on his face that another person, whose face shared his pillow, would notice.

Malfoy, on the other hand, always woke up confused. His body jerked a little every time, as though he hadn’t known he was asleep and, upon discovering it, had to jump out of it instantly for fear of some imminent danger.

And once he realised where he was and whom he was with, Malfoy blushed hard. The sight of Malfoy’s blush never failed to mesmerise Harry.

They never talked about it. They each scurried out of bed without making eye contact. Malfoy retrieved his toiletries before heading to the bathroom, and Harry grabbed anything that he had brought with him the preceding night, before heading back to his own room. It was an incredibly awkward and emotionally confusing affair.

Harry had no idea what one was supposed to think in a situation like this. He was doing Malfoy a favour. And neither of them was happy about it. But neither of them could stop. Malfoy needed this—as in, _life or death_ needed it—and part of him had to know that. Besides, chronic insomnia as severe as his _had_ to be utterly miserable. No matter how much he disliked Harry, surely it was a relief finally being able to sleep.

And, for his own part, Harry disliked Malfoy. And yet, something about this whole thing thrilled him. He had a purpose again, someone to save, and though Pansy Parkinson drove him mad and he would never admit the following to her, she had been right that Harry’s calling was to help people.

And besides that, Harry loved how this felt. He loved how soft it was to hold someone close, like he’d never gotten the chance to do before in his life. He loved the way he could press Malfoy into a mattress and make demands, and know that for some miraculous reason, Malfoy would yield.

Which was a big problem.

Thinking about how good it felt to hold Draco Malfoy, about pressing him into a mattress, and about making him yield… those were very bad things to allow oneself to consider in depth. Harry could not, would not, allow himself to fall down that rabbit hole. He was already close to going mad from this whole outlandish situation; he could not afford to speed up the mental deterioration by dwelling on all the other ways he could hold Malfoy or could make him yield.

And that was even without the entirely different, and equally dangerous, rabbit hole of how brilliantly he and Malfoy seemed to fit together. The contours of their bodies perfectly aligned, their limbs all tangled up, their…

 _No_.

 _Focus, Harry. You’re about to let your potion boil over_.

Wait, that last sentence hadn't been in his head. It had definitely come from outside his body, and been said in a distinctly female voice.

“Harry,” said Parvati, louder this time. _Shit_. “Turn off the heat on your cauldron already.”

He shook his head quick to clear it, and obeyed her sage advice. “Thanks.” He picked up a few jars to pour his potion into. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“No problem,” she said, though she snuck an extra glance at him before looking back down at her own potion. “You seem a bit out of it. Have you been sleeping?”

He fumbled with the jars he was holding and dropped them everywhere. He scrambled to pick them up and check that none had broken, and he tried to keep his voice from squeaking too much as he answered, “Yes. I’ve been sleeping just fine. Thank you for asking. And yourself?”

He stood up. Parvati was looking at him with a very wary expression. “Perfectly well, thanks.”

“Good.” He stared at her. His forehead was definitely sweating. “Okay. Well. Cheers, then.”

He turned away and busied himself with finishing off his potion. He’d never poured anything into a jar more quickly in his life.

“Remember, class,” announced Slughorn after the last student had handed in their potion, “your partnered assignments are due at the end of the week.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry hissed under his breath. He looked to Malfoy across the room, who shot a panicked look back at him.

* * * * *

That night, he came over to Malfoy’s room early, and they actually worked. More than that, to Harry's amazement and no small amount of shock, they actually worked _well_.

They were so nervous about their project—and so steadfastly determined that they would not acknowledge the Sleeping Thing during daylight hours, that they surprisingly got a lot done. And Malfoy was only an arse a total of seven times. And three of those times, Harry suddenly found himself seeing less as _dickish_ and more as _funny_ and _almost charming_.

Again, dangerous thoughts.

And then, just like that, it became bedtime. As the sun disappeared and the minutes ticked by, Malfoy got more and more restless, his eyes darting to the timepiece on his nightstand. He looked torn, apprehensive, anxious. Like he wanted Harry to leave and forget everything, and was curious to see what Harry would do if, like all the other nights, he stayed.

Harry decided to put an end to the confusion. He stood up. “All right, I think that’s enough work for today. Would you like to brush your teeth and change clothes and all that? I will.”

Malfoy didn’t meet his eyes or reply.

However, after Harry left to get ready for bed, he passed Malfoy leaving the bathroom while Harry was en route to brush his teeth, and when he got back to Malfoy’s room, the blond had changed into pyjamas as well.

Harry crawled under the covers, guiding Malfoy in after him with a gentle hand on his wrist, not so much forcing him as keeping the other boy’s momentum going.

Harry cast _Nox_ and Malfoy tensed against him again, breath stuttering.

“Shhhh,” Harry whispered. He wasn’t sure what gave him the idea or prompted him to do it, but the next thing he knew, his hand was stroking Malfoy’s arm. “Nothing’s different just ’cause I turned the light off.”

Malfoy nodded minutely. “Okay.”

A pause. Then, miraculously,

“Good night, Potter.”

Harry almost couldn’t believe his ears. But, he was still stroking Malfoy’s arm. He figured nothing could possibly get stranger if he replied, so he did. “Good night, Malfoy.”

They slept.

* * * * *

Until approximately half one in the morning.

A soft knock sounded on the door, and Harry, bewildered, slowly extricated himself from his embrace of the still-sleeping Malfoy, put his glasses on, and went to the door.

It was Hermione.

“You _are_ here!” she whispered, part breathlessly, part amazedly. “I’m sorry, Harry. I just needed your help and I had to find you.”

Harry blinked a few times to wake up a bit more. “No, of course,” he said, closing the door behind him softly.

They padded into the empty eighth year common room and sat in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry I’ve been kind of distant during the day, in the first place,” he added. He was beginning to notice how upset Hermione was, and she did not deserve to look so guilty for trying to talk to him on top of that. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just…” she sniffed. And then, the words seemed to tumble out of her. “Ron told me George has been having a really rough time, and even though Ron tries to play it down I just know how stressful it must be at the store, and I’m not there. Instead, I’m here, studying and writing essays and taking exams, when I should be out there helping him. And, Merlin, what if coming back to Hogwarts was terribly selfish of me?”

“No, come on,” said Harry, scooting closer to her. She seemed a few moments away from crying. “It’s not selfish of you to get an education. You wouldn’t be happy if you didn’t finish school, and Ron loves you too much to let you throw your happiness away.”

She sniffed again. “But I love Ron, too; _he_ makes me happy, too. I don’t want to throw _him_ away just to get a piece of parchment at the end of the year.”

“You aren’t throwing anyone away. Ron will be there for you, cheering you on at the end of the year when you get your piece of parchment.”

“But what if he needs me?”

“Then you can visit him, or give him the advice I’m sure you’re already giving him plenty of in your letters.” This made her concede a watery smile. “Anyway, he deserves more credit than that. You know he can handle this.”

“Are you sure?”

“More than sure,” he said firmly.

“But... should he _need_ to? Even if he can handle it, that doesn't mean he deserves to have to.”

Harry shook his head. “It's not about deserve. Look, life is hard sometimes, and you've just got to deal with what comes your way. We understand that as much as anyone can." She made a face that said, _oh boy do we_. “And he's not in this alone," he added. “He has George, and all of his family, and me, and yes, still you.”

“But I’m not there for him as much as I could be. I’m supposed to be able to give him all my support, but instead we just communicate with letters and periodic visits in Hogsmeade. It’s not enough. I'm letting him down, and I don’t—”

“No. Stop that right now. You're still there for him. You give him all kinds of support, and everything he needs to keep going. Besides, haven't you ever considered how much seeing you happy means to him?”

This seemed to take her aback. “Well, I mean, I suppose he...”

“Hermione. There is nothing Ron wants more than to see you happy. Knowing you’re here, doing what you love, and getting the education that means the world to you, is _exactly_ what he wants. That’s what makes everything worth it for him. You are aware of that, right?"

She sighed, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I guess. It's just, it feels so unfair.”

“Well, look at you: the great Hermione Granger failing to understand something.” He grinned when she playfully punched him in the arm. “I mean it. You’re completely disregarding how much that bloke loves you.”

“You think I am?” This thought appeared to sober her.

“Yes! _Unfair_ my arse. Just hush and let him feel proud of you as you pursue your own happiness, all right? If you think for even a second that he'd rather you sit there, miserable, in the back of the store so he can have a spare set of hands helping him stack boxes, then I’m revoking your Brightest Witch of Your Age title forever.”

She bit her lip. “You make some good points.”

“Of course I do.” He punctuated this by giving her a much-deserved hug.

When she finally pulled away, she looked in much better spirits. “Thank you, Harry. I didn’t want to wake you, but I knew talking to you would help.”

“I’m more than glad to help.”

She beamed at him, and although her eyes were still a bit red, she seemed mostly better. Thank Merlin.

There was a pause, and then Hermione bit her lip again. “Also, ah, why were you in Malfoy’s room?”

Harry flushed. “Right. Well, it’s complicated. How… how did you find me?”

“I’m sorry—I felt so guilty, truly, but I just had to talk to you.” She looked away, eyes dropping to the ground in compunction. “I got the Marauder’s Map from your trunk and used it to locate you.”

Harry sighed, nodding slowly. He couldn’t even be upset with her. He would’ve done the same thing in her shoes, of course. “No worries. It’s not fair you had to do that just to talk to me. I shouldn’t have been so distant recently.”

“Well, I didn’t believe what the map said at first.” She looked back at him, and her words picked up speed. “Then, I was scared Malfoy was in the process of murdering you or something. Or maybe that you were confronting him about something, like what happened in sixth year—oh, sorry, I know you don’t like to talk about that—and I wasn’t sure if it would be terrible to interrupt you, or if you _needed_ me to interrupt you. And I was worried about what I would find if I opened that door. But then I thought about how you’ve been gone from your room for multiple nights now, and how clearly you’ve been stressed and preoccupied with something for days, so naturally I realised that this wasn’t the only night you’ve spent in Malfoy’s room. Harry, you have to know I’ll support you no matter what, right?”

He blinked, trying to process everything she’d said in such a short amount of time. “Right.”

“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”

He swallowed. Of course she’d find out eventually. He didn’t know why he bothered keeping anything from her at all. “Yeah, I am.”

She looked surprised to hear it confirmed, but also like she’d known all along. Which was a strange combination of looks. How Hermione managed to have such complicated facial expressions at nearly two in the morning, Harry would never know. “Oh, Harry.” She sighed. “Well, I hope this makes you happy.”

“I don’t know how it makes me feel,” he admitted. It was so strange to talk about, but he supposed it was about time he discussed all of his conflicting emotions aloud. If anyone could make sense of it all, it was Hermione.

“I’m so confused,” he went on. “But Malfoy needs it. And at first I hated it, but now I'm starting to think I don’t hate it at all, and even though he started out kicking and screaming, and I had to literally drag him into bed and hold him down until he gave up fighting, now he just accepts it.” He shrugged, befuddled by his own rambling. “And it’s actually nice. I have no idea how long it’s going to last, but I don’t even think I want it to stop.”

She was staring at him, eyes beyond wide. Then she jumped up, whipped out her wand, and held it on him. “Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?”

He watched the tip of her wand, bewildered. “What?”

“Harry Potter would never rape anyone. If you don’t tell me who you are and where he is right now, I will curse you into oblivion.”

His mind screeched to a halt. He replayed his words again. And promptly wanted to die. “Oh my gods, Hermione, _no_. We’re not—we—we’re not having sex!”

She stared at him further. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not! Gods no. He just—he has insomnia!”

“What?”

“I—shit. I guess I know how that all sounded now. But, _fuck_ , of course I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t force anyone to have sex with—Malfoy was dying of sleep deprivation! I’m _sleeping_ with him! So he can _sleep_!”

A long pause ensued. Then, Hermione demanded, “What did Ron see in the vision that Salazar Slytherin's Locket showed him?”

“Er—well, you and I were insulting him and kissing.” Harry cringed, blushing as hard as he’d ever blushed in his life. “Godric, Hermione, please don’t make me relive that.”

She dropped her wand. “Merlin’s pants, Harry, never scare me like that again!”

Harry’s heart was pounding. “I could say the same thing about you!”

“You were the one who told me you were a rapist!”

“I did not! You misunderstood me. He and I are literally just _sleeping_. And anyway, how could us doing—us having—how could _that_ have been the first thing your mind came to? Why on earth did _that_ seem like the most plausible scenario?”

She ignored the question. “I don’t understand, Harry. Why would you agree to stay in Draco Malfoy’s bed to help him sleep at night?”

“It’s—it’s complicated, okay? I don’t really understand it, but it’s the only way he can sleep.”

“And you’re sure he’s telling the truth?”

“Why would anyone lie about this? He doesn’t even want me there.” He shook his head in disbelief at the situation. “Have you seen him the past few months? Apparently he was on the verge of death! This is me helping and being a good person!”

The next thing either of them knew, a strangled scream pierced through the door of Malfoy’s bedroom.

No.

Harry’s and Hermione’s voices had been too loud, Harry realised with a growing sense of horror. Malfoy had woken up. He had woken up in the dark, alone.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Harry hissed. He jumped up from the sofa and ran to the room. “ _Lumos_!”

Malfoy was sitting up in bed, hugging his knees, and screaming.

“Malfoy!” Harry shouted, rushing to his side in an instant. “Malfoy, it’s me. Snap out of it.”

It wasn’t apparent whether Malfoy even heard him. Regardless, it didn’t help. He was sobbing, wailing, eyes closed and shaking so hard it seemed rather like he was having a fit.

Hermione ran into the room after Harry and slammed the door behind her, Silencing it immediately.

Harry climbed up on the bed in front of the other boy. “Malfoy,” he repeated. “I need you to look at me. You’re having a… a what? A panic attack, right?” No response. “Whatever—the point is, you’re here. In this room, with me. I promise. You’re safe.”

Malfoy kept crying, his face bright red and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Hermione,” Harry said. She was still standing by the door, gaping at him and looking so distressed she seemed moments away from leaping forward and joining him on the bed as well. “…I’ve got this. Don’t worry. Just, will you please leave us now?”

“Harry… are you sure that—?”

“Yes. Please. Just keep anyone else away if they try to bother us, all right?”

She paused, looking dismayed and torn. But when it came down to it, Hermione trusted him. So, she finally nodded and exited the room.

In the short seconds between when she opened the door and closed it again, Harry could hear other footsteps approach. Quickly, he flung spells at the door, Warding and re-Silencing it both ways. He knew Hermione would take care of whatever was going on outside.

And then his focus zeroed in on Malfoy again, and nothing else.

“Hey,” he whispered. Deliberately soft, soothing. But firm. “Hey, Malfoy. Come on. Malfoy.”

Malfoy was rocking where he sat, whimpering.

“Do you know where you are?” he pressed.

A while ago, he would have been totally inept in a situation like this. He hadn’t even known what to make of Cho’s crying during his first kiss. But wars and their aftershocks change people.

Now, he called upon all the advice he’d ever received. He remembered what he’d seen his friends do to help themselves and each other in the wake of their traumas—when Hermione remembered Bellatrix’s torture, when Ron remembered watching Fred die, all of it.

“You’re in your dormitory, and Harry Potter is here talking to you,” he went on. “You’re safe, and nothing bad can happen to you. Not while I’m here.”

Malfoy visibly shivered. It was different from his fit-like shaking, and after the shiver passed, his so-tense-they-were-trembling shoulders had relaxed a noticeable amount.

Harry realised in that moment which words triggered it. What Malfoy was responding to. Hope bloomed in him, at knowing how he could help this.

“I am here to protect you,” he said. “Everything is fine. All you have to do is breathe, and I’ll handle the rest.” It was working. Merlin, it was actually working. Draco was still crying, but it was quieter now, less utterly hysterical. “Can I touch you?”

Draco nodded, still not making eye contact. The confirmation that Draco was fully listening to Harry’s words, and had now communicated back, made Harry audibly sigh in relief.

Draco’s blond hair was sweaty and matted against his forehead. The first thing Harry did was scrape it back with his fingers. Then he was cradling Draco’s head in his hand.

He leaned forward, dropping the hand down to wrap his arms around Draco in a hug. Draco let himself be moved. So, Harry leaned in more, and shifted around.

The final result had Harry sitting up against the headboard, Draco pressed between Harry’s legs, his back against Harry’s chest. Harry’s legs stretched out on either side of Draco’s. Harry’s arms were wound around Draco’s middle, while the Slytherin’s head lay back against Harry’s shoulder. Harry had figured sitting up would help Draco breathe easier, and he also knew how well spooning had helped Draco relax when he was falling asleep. He’d deduced that this would similarly be the case right now—and found, much to his relief, that he seemed to be correct.

“Feel my chest move,” Harry said. “Breathe along with me.” He felt as though he were acting in a dream. Doing strange things he’d never imagined he’d do, definitely not in this situation, definitely not with this person. Still, Draco’s touch anchored him to the moment, just like Harry’s own touch must be anchoring Draco. He decided not to think about that fact too hard. It would only hurt his brain, and he had a job to do.

Draco breathed, frantic gasps gradually becoming deeper and slower.

“I’m going to tell you a story, okay?” Harry asked. “Feel free to chime in whenever. Or just listen. That’s fine, too.”

He launched into an inane account of Ron at the joke shop, how he was helping his brother, and all of the antics they got up to together. Harry missed him, he explained, but he knew this situation was best for Ron. Ron had never been a particular fan of school, and now, after everything he'd seen here, he was in no hurry to come back. Besides, his brother needed his help and support at the shop. Harry and Ron wrote to each other constantly, so he couldn’t complain too much, but he still couldn’t wait to see Ron in person again soon.

He almost broke off when he felt Draco’s arm move. It was a slight twitch, barely anything, but it ended with Draco’s fingers toying absently with Harry’s. Just playing with them, nothing overly special, plucking them up and down where they rested over Draco’s stomach.

Harry forced himself to continue talking as though nothing were different, because objectively, nothing much was. But on the inside, his heart rabbited madly.

Finally, Draco exhaled. Harry trailed off, unsure if he was meant to continue or shut up.

Then, softly, Draco murmured, “Thank you.”

It was so quiet, so fragile, Harry’s heart gave another painful stutter. “Er, anytime,” he replied.

It was rather distressing that, even minutes later, Harry was thinking over his own response and realising just how much he had actually meant it.

Draco fell asleep. Like that, in Harry’s arms. Harry sat there, leaning against the pillows at the headboard, holding Draco, mind swirling.

And he liked it. He liked holding Draco _a lot_. Perhaps a worrisome amount.

So he did the only think he could comprehend doing in a moment like this. He turned his mind off and went to sleep, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Draco**

Draco awoke to sun streaming through the window. He still wasn’t quite used to that—the way the bedrooms in the newly constructed eighth year dormitories had natural sunlight, instead of the Slytherin dungeons’ wizardmade light beneath the dark glow of the Black Lake.

He blinked, turning his head, and _Merlin_ , he wasn’t used to having such a crick in his neck, either.

He took stock of his limbs and almost had a heart attack.

He was lying on his back on top of one Harry Potter. Draco’s head was tilted backward, tucked unceremoniously—and, it must be emphasised, at quite an unforgiving angle—into the crook of Potter’s neck. Potter’s arm was slung across Draco’s torso, and his thumb and forefinger… _oh_... had slightly pushed up the hem of Draco’s shirt, and now rested against the bare skin of his stomach. Draco shivered, the scorching heat of those fingers doing terrible things to his morning wood.

And, speaking of which. That definitely was not Potter’s hipbone digging into Draco’s arse. Fuck, it was way too early in the morning to have a brain aneurysm....

He pushed Potter’s arm off and rolled over next to him, mind pinwheeling as the memories of the previous night returned to him. His face was burning in no time at all.

“Mmm, Draco,” Potter muttered, furrowing his brows and slowly opening his eyes, and giving Draco all sorts of heart palpitations in the process.

Potter rubbed his eyes, half-asleep, and reached onto the bed next to him for where his glasses had fallen off. Once he donned them, he blinked himself into full wakefulness and stared at Draco’s expectant expression. “Hullo."

“Potter,” Draco said back stiffly, not sure what any of the emotions he was currently experiencing were.

"Malfoy." Potter cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”

Embarrassment threatened to engulf Draco at the question. It nearly succeeded in engulfing him, in fact, but he managed to force a smirk and a, “Splendid. And yourself?”

Potter made a valiant attempt at nonchalance with his answering laugh. “I’m all right.”

Draco nodded back, as regally and detachedly as he could.

Potter didn’t say anything else, so neither did Draco. A few intensely uncomfortable moments passed by, and then Draco stood, grabbing his toiletries. He muttered a quick, “Morning, then,” before hightailing it out of there.

* * * * *

**Harry**

Harry almost didn’t want to go to breakfast. Actually, scratch that—he definitely didn’t want to go to breakfast.

He dragged himself to the Great Hall, putting on a brave face despite his dread. When he arrived, he saw Hermione had saved a seat for him, and had even poured him some juice.

“Hey,” she greeted softly as he approached and sat. “How did you sleep?”

He wasn’t sure if this was a trick question or not. “Fine,” he replied. He gestured to the cup she’d poured and added, "And, er, thanks."

She smiled, and then looked at him meaningfully. “How is he doing?”

“He’s okay.” Harry sighed, heart speeding up at the mention of him. “Last night was…” his heart gave a twinge, “yeah, that was scary. But he’s all right. He even got back to sleep again after.”

“Really? Oh, thank goodness. What happened? How did you get him to calm down?”

Harry shrugged. He took a few sips of the juice. “I dunno. Talked to him, held him, distracted him. Used what I learned after the war, you know.”

It took him three whole seconds to actually notice what he’d told her, and then he almost choked on his drink. “I—”

“You held him?” Hermione asked, eyebrows higher than he’d ever seen them.

“It made sense in the moment.” He cringed.

“Do you usually touch him like that?”

Harry’s face was burning. He looked around sharply, to make sure no one around them was listening. “Let’s not talk about this, Hermione.”

“You do, don’t you?”

"Please stop."

"Harry."

“I—yes, okay, fine. I hold him every night and stroke his skin and tell him everything is going to be okay. There. Are you happy?”

She stared at him. A long pause stretched between them. Then, “I don’t know. Are _you_ happy?”

He closed his eyes. “I’m not sure.” He swallowed. “Maybe.”

She placed her hand on his. He looked down at it, and then up at her. “Okay then,” she said. “I’m glad you two have each other.”

He nodded blankly. She retracted her hand and didn’t ask him any more questions. They ate in silence, Harry trying desperately to focus on the taste of potatoes instead of on the swirling thoughts in his head.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Pansy and Theo were looking at Draco strangely. He did not care for this in the slightest.

After a bit of pressing, wherein they insisted they weren’t looking at him strangely at all, he got them to explain what was on their minds.

Apparently, while he’d been out of his head last night, his screams had reached half the castle (an exaggeration, probably, hopefully) before they’d abruptly cut off. Pansy and Theo, along with a few other students whom they quickly shooed away, came out of their rooms to investigate.

His friends had found Hermione Granger, standing outside Draco’s room and looking ashen.

Pansy had asked if Potter was in there, and apparently Granger had been surprised that they’d known of his and Potter’s recent affiliation.

And, wait a minute. For that matter, _so was Draco right now_.

He began to protest as much, but Pansy waved Draco’s questions off and jumped into the rest of the story.

 _Anyway_ , she continued, then Granger explained that she and Potter had accidentally woken him up by speaking too loudly, et cetera et cetera, and that Potter had just locked himself in the room with Draco and Silenced the door. Pansy, Theo, and Granger had no idea what the two of them were doing in there, and could only hope that neither boy would kill the other before morning.

“So?” Pansy demanded when she’d finished her tale. “What happened?”

Draco flushed, embarrassment filling him to the brink of overflow. “I survived, didn’t I? What else is there to tell?”

Pansy looked like she could grab his shoulders and shake him. “Draco. You _know_ what Theo and I went through the last time you—”

“Please don’t talk about that.”

She shot him a look. “Fine. But the point is, you know we’re familiar with your situation firsthand. I was sure you would hurt yourself last night. And hurt Potter. And that he’d hurt you. And maybe himself.”

She was looking more anxious with each word. And she was quickly tipping Draco over the edge of what things he could handle being acknowledged out loud. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to make her discuss this, after all.

“Yeah, you scared us half to death with what happened the first time,” added Theo before Draco could change the subject. “Last night, I almost wanted to break down the door.”

Pansy nodded. “If it had been anyone but Potter…”

“Yeah, what is it about that bloke?” Theo mused. “I never wanted to believe he was such a miracle worker before, but maybe there really is something to that whole Chosen One title—”

“You know,” Draco cut him off, heart rate suddenly tripling, “how about you don’t talk about this anymore, and in exchange I won’t ask you how the _fuck_ you know about him and me?”

( _About him and me_ , his brain echoed in a seductive whisper. The phrasing made it sound like Potter and he were involved—in a way quite different from the clinical sense he’d meant it in. He fought the heat that threatened his face with a vengeance.)

The two stared at him. Pansy looked away first, seeming chastised. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Theo agreed.

Draco nodded stiltedly. He forced himself to eat his apple without glancing up at the Gryffindor table, refusing to succumb to his burning desire to stare at Potter.

* * * * *

Whenever he saw Potter, his heart leapt.

Draco didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to accept it. But whenever they crossed paths, whenever he glimpsed Potter across the corridor or heard the echo of his laughter, whenever he so much as spied a shock of dark hair in a relatively Potter-like shape, his emotions did somersaults.

Draco wanted…

He didn’t know what he wanted. He tried to push the thoughts away, to compartmentalise them just like he’d compartmentalised every other inconvenient or unpleasant thought he’d ever had. But among the countless other things that made Potter special, one was that he defied all attempts to push him away. Harry Potter would not be ignored.

And neither would the fact that, every time he saw Potter, Draco had the intense urge to go to him. To talk to him. To touch him.

 _He holds me every night_ , Draco reminded himself. This was the wrong thing to do if he had any hope of quelling the feelings surging in his chest. But the reminders kept coming. _No matter what, every night, I’ll have him holding me._

His breaths were uneven. He forced himself to look down at his Transfiguration exercise.

Draco wanted. He wanted he wanted he wanted.

* * * * *

**Harry**

“So,” Parkinson’s voice greeted Harry as he marched toward the Quidditch pitch for practice. He groaned out loud.

She had emerged from behind the wall as he passed a stone archway, seemingly having been waiting for him to walk by.

“What happened last night?” she asked, keeping up with his pace easily.

Harry willed himself to maintain a neutral expression, even as guilt and embarrassment threatened to overwhelm him. “There was a problem, and Malfoy woke up. Hermione said she told you about it.”

“That she did,” Parkinson agreed. “But I’m not talking to her right now. I’m talking to you.”

Harry groaned again.

“Come on,” she said. “I told you I’ll support whatever it takes to help my friend. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to check in with you about it. _Especially_ after I hear him screaming his bloody head off at two in the morning.”

“Right.” He scratched the back of his neck with the hand not holding his broom. Fuck, discussing this stuff was so uncomfortable. “Well. I left the room, and he woke up while I wasn’t there. That’s why he got so upset. Draco never had a panic attack the other times he woke up, when I was in the room.”

“Ooh, he's _Draco_ now, is he?”

“Shut up. Malfoy. Whatever.”

She allowed herself another moment of smirking before she became serious again. She nodded, processing his previous words. “Okay. Then what did you do?”

He swallowed. Fuck, he was so close to the pitch… _almost… there…_

“I talked to him. Tried to distract him and stuff. It took a while, but eventually he calmed down and we went to sleep again.”

She nodded once more, looking pleased. Then she shot a glance his way. “I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

He felt like this conversation might be well and truly killing him, but he tried to keep as much of a poker face as possible. “No, that’s really it. Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I’ve seen him during one of those panic attacks. He doesn’t just ‘calm down’ if you ‘talk to him’. Theo and I tried to distract him—we tried _everything_. But it went on and on and on.”

“Well, maybe I just got lucky, then.”

“Aaaand that brings me to the second reason. Potter, you’re blushing like a Hufflepuff in a sex shop.”

“Hey!” he gasped, mortified.

“See? The blush is spreading.” Her words sounded delighted and triumphant. Still, it was impossible to miss the underlying edge there, the warning. “What else happened? Tell me.”

He was almost at the pitch. With his teammates. His escape was so near he could taste it.

“Didn’t you tell me I had free rein to do whatever I thought would help?” he hedged.

“Quit stalling, Potter.” Fuck. “Did you drug him? He won’t tell me. He just keeps blushing like you. I swear, you two are so awkward…”

“I didn’t drug him,” Harry blurted. This, at least, was one thing he could assure her. (He was fairly certain the back of his neck was sweating something fierce.)

“Then _what_?” she demanded again. “Why are you both so…?” She paused. Harry’s heart hammered, knowing something terrible was about to happen.

“You had sex with him, didn’t you?” she asked.

His footsteps screeched to a halt. “ _No_!” he shouted so loudly he wouldn’t be surprised if his teammates heard it. “Why does everyone keep— _no_! I just—I would never—I just helped him—”

Parkinson had stopped in front of him, now scrutinising his face intently. “You would never?” she asked evenly, quoting him for clarification. He had no idea what she was thinking about, and he didn’t want to know.

“I was just helping him,” Harry repeated. He felt ill.

“Helping him how?”

“I—I was—fuck, why don’t you and Hermione just compare notes or something? It would save me a lot of trouble having to go through this twice.”

To his horror, she replied, “I might just do that.” She looked into his eyes, searching for something, but what, he didn’t know. “But for now, humour me.”

He swallowed. “I just talked to him. And I held him. He, er…” His face flamed. He couldn’t make eye contact with her anymore. “He likes when I do that. It helps. So.”

He watched some Gryffindors mill about the pitch, talking and throwing Quaffles back and forth before practice would officially commence. He felt too overheated to want to join them anymore.

Parkinson didn’t speak for a while. When she did, her voice was flippant again, and she stepped back. “All right. I said you had my blessing, and you still do. If he likes it and it helps, then I’m just glad you stumbled upon something so effective.”

He risked a glance at her. Her expression was casual. So why was his heart still pounding? “Really?”

“Of course. Why would you think otherwise? Carte blanche means carte blanche, Potter.” She tugged on her robes to straighten them out, like the conversation wasn’t dire enough to devote her undivided attention to. “Well, obviously there are _some_ exceptions implied here, such as causing Draco any actual harm—which, to be clear, I would murder you for—but I am pleased to see that your title as resident freelance Saviour does not disappoint.”

Harry’s stomach twisted uneasily. He really wished she’d stop talking like that.

“So, keep up the good work, I say,” she bade him. He nodded, feeling exhausted.

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but her mouth opened and closed, and she didn’t add anything.

Finally, she offered him a smile that looked slightly strained, and walked back to the castle.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. He forced himself to continue toward Quidditch practice, although he truly wanted nothing less than to collapse into bed and sleep for a week.

 _With Draco Malfoy_ , he refused to acknowledge that his brain added.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: The relevance of the "consent issues" tag really starts ratcheting up from here on out, so this is your heads up

**Draco**

Potter joined him in Draco’s room that night after dinner.

They worked on their project. Potter was abysmal at the chemistry side of Potions, sure. But, he actually proved more than passable when it came to the magic side, pointing out some interesting ideas about why certain spells on a cauldron stirrer might change the way it produced a mixture. He said it simply and without embellishments, as though he had no idea they were poignant suggestions at all. In fact, classic Potter, he probably _didn’_ t know. Draco fought to remember that this was a sign of Potter’s ignorance and idiocy, and not of his innate magical talent or his charming humbleness. Humbleness was not charming, he reminded himself. And neither was Potter.

Finally, Potter turned to the timepiece on Draco’s nightstand, so Draco turned, too. They both looked on silently as the clock displayed the late hour.

Without saying another word or making eye contact, they shuffled off to wash up and change. Draco tried to turn his brain off, tried not to analyse anything at all.

Then they were standing in the room again. Potter laid a soft touch on his wrist and guided him into bed, and Draco didn’t analyse that either. And when Potter’s arms came up and wrapped around Draco’s torso, Draco forced himself not to think.

Potter’s whispered _Nox_ blanketed the room in velvety darkness, and narrowed the whole world down to Potter’s touch. Potter’s soft and steady breathing. Potter’s smell, which was everywhere.

He wondered if Potter could feel Draco’s heart pounding underneath his hands.

* * * * *

**Harry**

Harry awoke in the middle of the night. For two long moments, he wasn’t sure why.

Then he became aware of how good he felt, specifically in his groin region, and how such a sensation was not the normal baseline state of things.

And then he realised that he was pressed up against Malfoy’s back—this not in itself any more shocking than usual—and that Malfoy was still sound asleep, and that Harry’s arm was wrapped around Malfoy, and that it was stuffed down the front of Malfoy’s trousers.

Harry’s heartbeat screeched to a halt. He took stock of things as though in a dream, as though assessing someone who was not himself.

His hand, as previously acknowledged, was indeed stuffed down the front of Malfoy’s trousers. It was cupped over Malfoy’s pants—not under, so thank the Fates for small miracles, he thought deliriously—and around Malfoy’s… _oh dear Godric_ … impressive erection. Harry’s fingers were— _fuck fuck fuck fuck_ —still massaging it.

His hand was using this leverage around Malfoy’s groin to hold him still while Harry’s hips rocked back and forth. Now, Harry deduced the source of the positive sensation he’d woken up to. He was, in a languid but firm rhythm, rubbing against Malfoy with Harry’s own erection.

Horror filled Harry with such an immediate intensity he very nearly died on the spot. A rush of pleasure filled him the next moment, as he drove himself against Malfoy’s again and felt the groove between Malfoy’s arsecheeks with his cock.

Oh, fuck, what was he _doing_?

He let go of Malfoy immediately, sliding his hand out of Malfoy’s trousers so quickly he almost forgot about the gentle art of Not Waking Someone Up. Thankfully, Malfoy remained sound asleep, leaving Harry to simply have his meltdown in peace.

Harry sat up, heart now pounding. He was so hard it _hurt_. His hand went down to press against his erection, but at the last moment he realised what he was doing and stopped himself. He’d basically been molesting Draco Malfoy’s unconscious body, and now he was still sitting next to said Draco Malfoy’s said unconscious body. He could not exacerbate the awful situation by _wanking_ , for Merlin’s sake.

Founders, this was so fucked up. He was not the kind of person who molested people, dammit! And he was not the kind of person who, at the thought of how it felt to grind against Draco Malfoy, and upon remembering the feel of Draco Malfoy’s hard cock in his palm, nearly came untouched in his pants.

 _No_. He would _not_ get off on this.

Although perhaps he had nothing against getting off on a wad of tissues in the loo. He really was so hard it hurt. His resolve was slipping.

He stood up, and actually made it two steps toward the door before he remembered what had happened the last time he’d left Malfoy alone in the middle of the night.

He clenched his fists. No. That had been utterly traumatic for Malfoy, and for every other person who’d witnessed it. Harry would not put anyone in that kind of danger again. Malfoy needed him. And staying in the room now was the least Harry could do for Malfoy, considering what terrible things Harry had just been doing to him in his sleep.

He sat down at the desk, refusing to rejoin the bed. Harry didn’t deserve the comfort of that bed, and Malfoy didn’t deserve to share a bed with a molester. And also being near Malfoy right now would be disastrous for Harry’s determination not to rub one out in this room. And also Harry knew there was no chance he would go back to sleep again that night anyway.

He sat there on the uncomfortably cold wooden chair at Merlin-knew-what-hour-of-the-night, and steadfastly tried to ignore the throbbing of his erection.

This lasted all of one minute, before something absolutely horrific happened.

Draco Malfoy started making sounds.

It started off as a little breath. A breath tinged with a high note, a little desperation. Harry jumped in his chair, worried Malfoy was waking up. But Malfoy didn’t wake up, which had an even worse effect.

He shifted in his sleep. His breath became faster. He shifted again.

Oh no. Oh… _no_.

Malfoy was still very hard. That was clear. As he lay on his back with his legs splayed, Harry had a perfect view of the bulge tenting the blankets. Harry’s heart pounded, and he forced himself to look away.

But he could _hear_ it, the rustling, the breathing, the faint whines. And when he lost out against his own resolution and looked again, Malfoy’s hand was— _fuck_ —drifting down under the covers and… _touching himself_.

Harry stood up. He had to get out of here. He could not witness this. It was the height of immoral, of perverted, of violating Malfoy’s privacy. Also it was so hot that Harry really might come in his pants, and his erection ached tremendously.

But… Malfoy, the panic attacks, the need for Harry’s company, the inability to be left alone… _bloody mother of fuck!_

He stood there, floundering, and standing up unintentionally gave him a better view of how Malfoy was shifting in his sleep, hand unabashedly rubbing at his cock. Malfoy’s legs came up and he bent his knees, holding them wide, riding his hand.

Harry grabbed onto the desk behind him for support. He felt faint. He was sweating.

He wanted to yank the blanket off of Malfoy so he could see how Malfoy gripped himself, could watch that cock slide under Malfoy’s hand. But he would _not_. That was one line he would not cross. He would stay back here, leaning his weight on the desk so he did not collapse from arousal, and grinding the heel of his palm against his own erection to provide it some relief. And he would try not to die as he watched Malfoy pump his hips up into the air, again and again.

Then the blond shoved his hips up one last time with a high and drawn out whine, and stilled. Malfoy trembled, holding his position, and Harry watched as Draco Malfoy came.

Everything slowed. Harry’s world whited out, pleasure overwhelming him in one giant avalanche of intensity, rolling through him, stealing his breath away. And then it gradually receded, and with it returned his ability to process how Malfoy sank back down into the pillows, legs sliding down onto the mattress, utterly sated.

And Harry had to deal with the aftermath of the fact that he, too, had just come, from the sheer spectacle of Draco Malfoy stroking himself to completion.

Harry proceeded to have an existential crisis of epic proportions. He Vanished the stickiness in his pants with disgust and dread. He couldn’t believe himself. He couldn’t believe what had just happened, what he had just _let_ happen.

He should have turned away. He should have Silenced Malfoy, should have Transfigured some item in the room into a pair of earplugs, should have gouged out his own eyes rather than let himself watch that. Be privy to such an intimate…

His cock twitched just thinking about it.

He shoved himself back into the desk chair, head in his hands, heart still in overdrive. Merlin, he was a terrible person. And he was so attracted to Draco Malfoy he couldn’t think properly. Or at all. And it would be a very long night.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Through the fuzziness of sleep, Draco dimly registered sunlight, and then he remembered that he was asleep, and jerked awake.

No one was holding him, he realised. The bed was _empty_. His stomach swooped, fear threatening to consume him, before he heard noise coming from his desk.

He looked up, and saw Harry Potter sitting in a chair, apparently entertaining himself by making coloured sparks appear from his wand. The relief Draco felt was immediate. His stomach swooped again, this time in joy, and he actually sighed.

Potter looked up at him and almost dropped his wand.

“Oh! You’re awak—hi, Mal—how are you fee—good morning,” Potter babbled, tripping over himself in a way that Draco was helpless not to find adorable.

“Morning,” Draco replied, shoving _that_ disturbing thought away. “Has anyone ever told you how atrocious your bedhead is?”

Potter’s hand came up absently to touch his hair. “Every day of my life, just about,” he joked, despite the fact that his eyes seemed unnaturally wide.

“What are you staring at?” Draco asked, suddenly nervous. Had he drooled in his sleep? Had his pillow left an indent on the side of his face?

“Nothing! I—nothing—” Potter stood jerkily. He turned away, looking lost for a moment, and then marched out of the room. “I have to go. See you later.”

He slammed the door behind him. Draco blinked.

Well, _that_ had been bizarre.

He turned to slide out of bed, and then froze. If he was not hallucinating, then he definitely had dried come in his pants right now. He grimaced at the feeling, grabbing his wand and casting a horrified _Scourgify_.

He thought back to Potter, who had clearly been awake for quite a while by the time Draco saw him. And how strangely Potter had acted. He hadn’t… noticed anything, had he?

His stomach swooped once more at the idea. No way. Potter couldn’t have.

Draco leapt out of bed to take a shower and vowed not to consider such an impossible notion ever again.

* * * * *

“It’s the last night to work on our Potions assignment,” Potter said that evening. He said it nonchalantly, and didn’t look up from the parchment he was scrawling notes on.

Draco felt the room go slightly colder. Right. Once their assignment was finished, Potter would have no excuse to be in Draco’s room anymore.

Unless they made a plan to keep this up. Unless they officially made their arrangement long-term.

“Oh,” Draco said quietly.

A long pause reigned.

Then, Potter put away his quill and cleared his throat. “All right. Time for bed.”

That never failed to give Draco goosebumps.

He nodded, and they split up to get ready, then reconvened.

He waited for the hand on his wrist he’d gotten used to, for the way Potter would tug him close and gather Draco up in his arms. But this time, Potter just glanced at him and glanced away, getting into bed without making any attempt to touch him.

Draco stood there, abandoned at the side of the bed, feeling lonely and cold.

A few moments passed, and finally Potter spoke. “You’re used to this by now, aren’t you?” he asked. “You don’t need me to hold you down anymore.”

Draco’s heartbeat skittered around. Humiliated. And disappointed beyond comprehension.

He wanted to run away. To yell, “If you won’t hold me down then I won’t stay!” But he didn’t. He just stood there for a few more moments, staring at Potter, who would not make eye contact with him.

Slowly, stiltedly, he crawled into bed. He lay down with his back to Potter, and Potter didn’t pull him close. He seemed to have deliberately scooted as far away from Draco as he possibly could have on the bed.

So, it really was true, then. Potter only ever touched him because he’d had to. Never because he actually wanted to at all. The first moment he’d felt like Draco could survive on his own, Potter did everything in his power to put distance between them.

Draco felt like shit. He didn’t want to analyse why. If anything, Potter’s reaction was the right one, and Draco should feel relieved that they weren’t touching any more than strictly necessary. He didn’t know what the painful tightening of his stomach was coming from at all. He just knew he felt like shit, and that it was all Potter’s fucking fault.

* * * * *

**Harry**

Early morning. The faint sounds of birds chirping, pale light peeking in through the curtains. Harry was very warm—hot, even. He blinked his eyes open.

He was cuddling Malfoy, knees curled up under Malfoy’s bent knees, face buried in Malfoy’s neck, hands inside Malfoy’s shirt and lightly stroking the soft skin of his chest.

“ _No_ ,” he yelped out loud, jumping back so hard he fell out of bed.

“Wussat?” Malfoy mumbled, turning over.

Harry stopped breathing. He froze, waiting for Malfoy to open his eyes and perhaps hex Harry to death. But luckily—or perhaps unluckily, in terms of objective justice—the other boy didn’t stir again.

Harry wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees, narrowly resisting the urge to rock back and forth like a toddler.

Hell, what was going on? Why did he feel like his very skin was aching with the need to reach out, to grab Malfoy, to touch every bit of him he could find? Even now, it took everything he had not to climb back under the covers and wrap Malfoy up in a tight embrace again. Why was this Harry’s life?

Thank Merlin it wasn’t long until wakeup time anyway; the floor wasn’t particularly the most comfortable place for the prolonged sitting and wallowing Harry intended to do.


	8. Chapter 8

**Draco**

Draco woke with a terrified leap of his heart. He was alone. Potter was gone—Potter was gone—Potter—

Was on the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing down there?” Draco demanded.

Potter sat on the ground beside the bed, with his elbow propped on his leg, chin resting forlornly against his hand. He looked up at Draco, dropping his hand. “Erm,” he said slowly, voice quiet. “Enjoying the… carpet?”

Draco blinked. “You’re every bit as mental as I’ve ever charged you with, Potter.”

The Gryffindor nodded, looking as though he thoroughly believed this.

And then, “Are you okay?” Potter asked after a moment. As though Draco were the one inexplicably sitting on the floor. “You seemed scared for a second there.”

Draco waved the question off, feeling his cheeks heat. “I’m fine,” he said. And then for some bizarre reason, his mouth found it fit to reply truthfully, “I just—I just thought I was alone.”

A look of guilt passed across Potter’s face. “Still?”

“What do you mean, ‘still?’”

“I mean… I thought that would be enough, for me just to be in the same room.”

Draco shrugged, not wanting to admit something so embarrassing. Especially when Potter was clearly trying to find a way to touch Draco as little as possible, and therefore Draco should lie and say he wanted as little to do with Potter, too.

But Draco had just woken up, and his brain-to-mouth filter was evidently taking a holiday until his morning tea. He found himself answering quietly, “I don’t know. I’ve never had someone with me to… er…” He took a shuddering breath. _Mortifying_ , all of this. “Point is, I’m just figuring it out as I go. And all I know is I don’t… that is, when I can’t… know that you’re there. Right away. If I can’t feel you—”

Potter sat up on his heels, leaning his elbows on the bed. “You want to feel me.” He said it slowly, almost gravely, like he was trying to clarify something of life-or-death importance.

Alarm coursed through Draco’s body as his words replayed themselves in his head. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself say something so— “I, I didn’t mean like—”

“I know you didn’t.” A tone Draco couldn’t place coloured Potter’s words, but Potter went on before Draco could try to analyse it fully. “Just answer this. True or false: you get scared if you’re sleeping and I’m not touching you.”

Draco’s mouth felt like cotton as he whispered the reply. “True.”

Potter nodded. He looked away, stealing Draco’s ability to read his facial expression. “How do you feel now?”

The honest answer was, _still shaky, heartbeat trying to slow down to normal but taking its dear old sweet time doing it_. But he tried a neutral and flippant, “Oh, well, better than sometimes, as you can imagine.”

Potter looked back at him, eyes determined. He seemed to understand the implicit message all the same.

The next thing Draco knew, Potter was climbing up into the bed and placing his hand on Draco’s arm. “How about now?”

The relief was immediate. Warm skin, smoothing down the terrified goosebumps. Assuring him that if anything dangerous entered the room and came at him, it would come at Potter, too. And nothing could get past Harry Potter.

He couldn’t reply. Couldn’t find the words. But he knew Potter must have seen it on his face. A moment later, Potter was sliding his hand up and down Draco’s arm, like he’d done other times he’d wanted to calm Draco. This drew a whole new kind of goosebumps to the surface. Draco fought to keep his eyes from drifting blissfully shut.

An indeterminable length of time passed. They just sat there. Potter letting Draco feel him, Draco helpless to do anything else but sit there and just feel.

He felt recharged. Whole. “Better,” he finally said, opening his eyes. “Thank you.”

Potter’s look of surprise said he didn’t miss how Draco had just actually _thanked_ him. Draco would feel embarrassed if he had the capacity to feel anything other than relieved.

Draco scooted out of the bed before more mortification had a chance to sink in. “Come on,” he muttered, trying to deflect the strange tension that had suddenly gathered in the air. “Breakfast, and all that.”

He grabbed his toiletries and left the room.

* * * * *

**Harry**

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly. He stood in the doorway of her bedroom, waiting for her to exchange her morning books for her afternoon books before they headed to lunch. “I… I think I’m ready to talk to you now.”

She paused in her bag-organising and looked up at him. “Oh?” she asked softly.

“Yeah.” He knew he had to. He just wasn’t sure how.

She straightened, then gestured for him to sit. He closed the door behind him and obeyed.

“It’s not about Ginny,” he blurted out first. He felt that this was important to clarify.

“Right, I suppose not,” she replied, eyes glittering in light amusement. But her tone was patient and kind.

“It—it’s about…” The words dried up in his mouth. Fuck, he had no idea what he wanted to say. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Hermione, what do I _do_?”

She sat next to him. “With Malfoy?”

Even hearing his name was enough to make Harry’s heart stumble. He nodded jerkily. Then he rushed to add, “I mean, not _with_ him. I don’t want to _do_ anything _with him_ , not like _that_ …”

He was rambling. And, though he hadn’t even processed that he’d been about to reply, now that he was doing so, he realised something new. He realised with unadulterated horror that he was also _lying_.

“It’s okay,” Hermione replied, voice soothing. “What does he think about all this?”

“What does he think?” Harry repeated.

“Yes. How does he feel about it? What does he want to do?”

Harry shook his head. “No idea.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him?”

He snorted derisively at the idea. “Ask _Malfoy_? You do remember who we’re talking about, don’t you? You can’t have a conversation with him.”

“I don’t think that’s true, nor do I believe you do, either.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she went on.

“You claim you can’t talk to him. And yet, when he was having a panic attack, you knew just what to say and do to help him through it? When even his best friends hadn’t been able to before?”

He looked up at her. “Really?”

“Really. They told me themselves.”

He ducked his head. He internally squirmed at the idea of them discussing those things in such detail, but he knew he shouldn’t be surprised.

He wondered what Pansy Parkinson would say if she knew what _else_ he’d been doing with Malfoy recently.

“What if I’m doing something terrible?” he asked. “Something very, very wrong.”

“You’re not,” she said—inaccurately, of course. “Just follow your heart, Harry. That’s proven to be one of your greatest tools in life.” She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. “But if you ever find yourself in a situation where you’re doing something you dislike, it’s never too late to change it.”

She pulled him to his feet. He was grateful, because he wasn’t sure his shaky legs would have been able to support him alone. They walked down to the Great Hall together, her words still rattling around in Harry’s head all the way.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco sat at his desk while Potter turned in their project to Slughorn.

He tried not to admire the way Potter’s shoulders looked under those dark robes. He forced himself to stare down at his textbook when that proved to be too difficult a task.

A soft, deep voice suddenly met him, much closer to his ear than he’d realised. “It’s officially entered for a mark,” Potter said. The sound was rough, the words too hushed. Draco fought the pull his stomach felt at the sound.

“Okay,” he said quietly. It was too breathy. Surely Potter would hear it. Hear how weak, how helpless it was.

Potter’s hand slipped down. No one could see, because he was standing so close. He snuck it onto the desk, next to Draco’s arm, and brushed the fingers against Draco’s wrist, sliding them underneath his sleeve a little and swiping them across the skin of his arm. Draco’s heartbeat changed rhythms.

“I’ll be there tonight,” Potter said. His voice was _so deep. So hot_. Draco was going to get hard, right here in the middle of class. “Unless you decide not to open the door for me. Okay?”

He nodded. He felt charmed like a snake.

“Good.” Potter withdrew his hand. “I think we should talk about this.”

Draco’s insides froze. “What?”

“Yeah. Just set some ground rules, you know. Make sure we’re on the same page.”

Draco wanted to refuse. To demand they stay in stubborn silence and never acknowledge this mortifying arrangement out loud, ever. But just then, Potter glanced behind him to check no one was watching, then reached out and cupped Draco’s cheek. The words died in Draco’s throat.

“You looked scared,” Potter acknowledged, like he had any right. And Draco was hard now, he noted with dull horror. Potter’s head tilted to gesture to where his hands were touching Draco, and he said, “There’ll be more where this came from, as long as we talk. Deal?”

Draco was desperate not to. It was too embarrassing. But then Potter’s thumb swiped across Draco’s cheek and Draco _whimpered_.

“Deal,” he said, the word feeling yanked from his stomach.

Potter smiled—smiled _at Draco_ —and stepped back, taking his hands with him. “Good. I’ll see you tonight.”

Draco just stared at him, unable to respond. Potter swaggered back to his desk.

Draco was still hard.


	9. Chapter 9

**Harry**

Harry came by earlier than usual that night.

He’d been amazed by his own behaviour in class, not sure where that sudden burst of boldness had come from. He’d known that he and Malfoy needed to talk, known that negotiating was nonnegotiable. But then he’d seen how Malfoy had tensed up, how he’d taken on that hunted look, and the rest had been automatic. Harry could smooth that anxiety away with a _touch_. It was mesmerising to watch as his hands made contact and Malfoy’s shoulders instantly relaxed. Their skin brushed and Malfoy’s face cleared. It was thrilling. It was addictive.

Harry knocked on the door, and Malfoy let him in a few moments later.

He was wearing nightclothes already, hair gel-free and neatly combed. He’d therefore known Harry would stop by earlier than usual, even though Harry hadn’t told him that, and consequently had gotten ready earlier, too. Harry hadn’t asked him to. But, Malfoy had taken what Harry had said and deduced, and had planned his night accordingly.

This was small, maybe, and Harry didn’t know why it mattered so much to him all of a sudden. But, the fact was, it meant he and Malfoy were on a similar wavelength, that they thought about these things the same way.

If anyone had told Harry a few weeks ago that he and Malfoy would be on the same wavelength about anything, he would have vehemently refuted it.

But now, it made Harry want to do bizarre things. Like smile at Malfoy, and maybe high five him, and maybe even hug him.

Malfoy closed the door behind Harry and walked back over to the bed without a backward glance. When the blond sat down near the pillows on the bed, he crossed his arms and stared at Harry with a hostile expression.

“Well?” he asked coldly. “You wanted to _talk_?” He all but spat the word.

Harry walked over at sat at the foot of the bed, angling his body so they were next to each other but face to face. “Yeah.”

Malfoy looked at him, and as moments went by, he seemed to get more frustrated. “So?” he demanded finally. “Then talk!”

Harry nodded and cleared his throat. “I think I’ll be coming by here every night from now on,” he said. “Won’t I?”

Malfoy flinched. Harry wanted to put his hand on Malfoy’s clenched fist, and see if that would soothe him. But he refrained. _Not yet_.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy grumbled, looking away. “Whatever you want.”

Harry almost laughed. Draco Malfoy, telling him to do whatever he wanted. This felt like they were in an episode of the Muggle _Twilight Zone_. “What do _you_ want?” Harry pressed, softly.

“Shut up, Potter.”

“No.” He leaned back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. “I want to hear what you want.”

If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say Malfoy was going pink. And Harry _didn’t_ know any better, actually. He’d bet his life that Malfoy was going pink. “I don’t know.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really!” Malfoy shot him a glare and then looked away again. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Well, let’s discuss it and see if we can figure that out.”

“I don’t want to discuss it, you prick.”

Lashing out and insulting him because he was scared and embarrassed, Harry reflected. Before, the motivations behind Malfoy’s insufferable behaviour wouldn’t have made a difference to Harry. Now, they made it not insufferable at all.

“Me neither. But we’re going to discuss it anyway.”

“I don’t see why we have to.”

“I think you do.”

Malfoy glared at him again. “Fine,” he snapped. “So come by every night. See if I care.”

“Okay,” Harry said simply. “If that’s what you want.”

“Shut up!”

“I’ll come by if you want that, Malfoy.”

“And if I don’t? I don’t seem to remember you listening to what I wanted the first hundred times.”

Harry fought letting his mind fixate on all the reasons he had to feel guilty, and made himself focus on the task at hand. “I regret that,” he admitted. “You were in danger, and Pansy told me—”

“ _Pansy_?!” Malfoy seemed like he was one moment away from storming out of the room and dragging the girl in by her hair. “ _She sicked you on me_?!”

Uh oh.

“She loves you,” Harry said. “She was so worried. After the first few times you fell asleep in front of me by accident—” Malfoy flinched again “—she told me what was going on with you and begged me to help.”

Malfoy was definitely bright red now. “So, it was against _both_ our wills, is that it?”

“No,” Harry said firmly. The quickness with which he felt so certain surprised even him. He hadn’t considered it too deeply before, but now that Malfoy was making him confront the question, he felt less like he’d been coerced to be here. And more like part of him had always wanted it, all along.

He went on. “I wanted to help you. I hated how I had to force you like that. But I knew the alternative, and I figured deep down you knew how important it was, too. And maybe, even though you were yelling and stuff, you actually… liked it.”

Risky. Risky risky risky thing to say. Harry held his breath, waiting for a reaction one way or another to such an allegation.

Malfoy stared intently at the floor, glowering at it like he hoped to burn a hole in the carpet. He didn’t say anything.

“Malfoy…” Harry said softly after a few moments. His heart jittered uncontrollably in his chest. “I like it.”

The Slytherin whipped his head up to stare at him so quickly that he seemed in danger of hurting his neck.

Harry didn’t know how he brought himself to say it. He hadn’t even wanted to _think_ it. But, he was a Gryffindor. Daring, brash, speak-before-you-think-and-hope-for-the-best. Speak because you know it’s right, and because you’re the only person brave enough to do so.

“You like it?” Malfoy repeated.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Malfoy. Do you?”

Malfoy’s gaze flicked away, and he appeared to study the design on the wall. “All right, Potter,” he said, with the put-upon air of someone performing an inconvenient deed for the good of humanity. “I suppose I’ll let you keep coming by, then.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do _you_ like it, Malfoy? I’ll only come by if you do.”

Malfoy’s gaze returned. He stared Harry down, challenging. “You said yourself you know what the alternative is. If I tell you I hate it, you’ll come by anyway.”

“But you _don’t_ hate it.”

“Says who?”

“Says you, in a moment.” Harry flashed him a humorous smile that Malfoy did not return.

“Fuck you!” he snapped. “I’ll have you know I do hate it. Very fucking much.”

Harry sighed. He scooted closer on the bed. “Please just tell me how you feel. I want us to be on the same page.”

“As if you actually care what I think, Potter.”

“I do. And I want you to know you don’t have to hide anything from me.”

“I have quite a bit I’d like to hide from you, actually!” he scoffed, sounding affronted.

“Well, can your feelings on this… not be one of them? I told you I like it. I just want to hear what you think, too.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him. “Okay, what if I did like it?”

Harry shrugged. “Then I’d be happy. And I’d probably put my arm around you or something, if you want.” (Malfoy’s whole body was strung tight like a bow. Harry was fairly certain that putting his arm around Malfoy would cure it.)

Malfoy looked like he was fighting not to cave at the offer. “I—” A pause. Then an attempt to deflect again. “What if I like not dying, huh? This is just a necessary evil because if I don’t let you sully my personal space, I know I’ll become ill.”

Even this admission seemed almost too much for him; his face paled after he spoke, sick at acknowledging the seriousness of his condition and acknowledging Harry’s role in it. Still, Harry knew that Malfoy had to acknowledge the rest.

“It’s true you’ll become ill,” he nodded. “But I’m not asking what you think about not dying. I’m asking what you think about me sleeping in your bed and touching you when you get stressed. Do you _like_ it?”

Malfoy was clenching his fists so hard he was shaking. “It doesn’t seem like you’ll take no for an answer. You’ll just insist I’m lying until I say I like it. What if I say I do, just because that’s the only answer you’ll accept? Nothing guarantees I’m telling the truth.”

Harry felt his glasses slide slightly down his nose as he widened his eyes earnestly. “Please, _please_ tell the truth.”

Malfoy stared at him. Silence stretched by for a while. Harry let it.

Then, finally, Malfoy muttered—so quietly Harry would have missed it if he weren’t so attuned to him, “Sure. Yes. I like it.”

“You do?”

“Fuck you, Potter. I just said so. Yeah. Whatever. I like it. Are you happy?”

Harry smiled at him. “Yes.”

With that, he reached out and slung his arm around Malfoy’s waist, pulling him close until his side brushed against Harry’s chest.

Malfoy seemed taken off-guard. Harry’s reaction seemed to have thrown him. But he didn’t pull away.

“Let’s lie down, okay?” Harry whispered into the space between them.

Malfoy closed his eyes. “O-okay.”

They separated to crawl under the covers. They lay down next to each other.

Harry _Noxed_ the lights. The room was quiet for a while.

Then, Harry asked, “Why is it so difficult for you to sleep?”

Malfoy whined, rolling so that his face pressed into the pillow and his back was to Harry. “I thought we were done talking.”

“There’s still more to say,” Harry shrugged. “Seriously. Why?”

“I don’t know. Shut up.”

“Do you actually not know, or do you just not want to admit you know?”

“Doesn’t make much of a difference to you, as I’m not going to tell you either way.”

Harry beamed. He’d been right. “So you do know. Come on; I won’t laugh at you or anything.”

“How kind of you. Good night.”

“Malfoy.”

“I said, _good night_.”

“ _Malfoy_.”

“No! You don’t get everything you want just because you ask for it!”

“I am perfectly aware. But this is one thing that I think it’s very important for you to tell me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it matters.”

“No it doesn’t!”

He brushed his hand against Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy jerked away and shook him off. Harry exhaled. “Please tell me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry you don’t want to. But I think it’ll help a lot.”

“It won’t.”

“How about we see?”

Malfoy didn’t reply. They lay there for a full minute, neither of them speaking.

And then,

“It was always hard for me to sleep,” Malfoy mumbled. “For years. I kept thinking about the pressure from my family, and then about the—you know.” A shaky breath. “The Dark Lord getting stronger, and everything. And then what I had to do for him.”

Oh.

Malfoy’s voice rose, cracking on his next words. “I had to _murder_ someone, Potter. Or he would torture my family to death.”

He was crying now. Harry could hear it. And he felt through the blanket how Malfoy’s shoulders were shaking. “And I almost killed those other people, too. Including your best friend. Or had you forgotten?”

Harry hadn’t forgotten. He stayed silent.

“All those Death Eaters at Hogwarts. Terrorising students. Killing people during the battle. That was my fault. All of it.” He let out a strangled sound that wrenched its way into Harry’s own stomach.

“They were in my bloody home, Potter! How could I sleep when I knew who was just outside the door? It was like living with a bunch of Dementors. Everything was just cold and death and fear and—”

Malfoy threw his arm back, scrambling, and the next thing Harry knew, Malfoy was grabbing Harry’s hand and squeezing it hard.

“There were all sorts of sounds,” he went on. “Laughing, or… or Greyback’s claws on the other side of the wall. Or _screaming_ , Potter. Do you have any idea how many people they tortured and killed in my house? I heard so much of it. I _saw_ so much of it, too.” He squeezed Harry’s hand harder.

“And any moment, anyone could come into my room. I had absolutely nothing to stop them, especially after you took my wand. My mum gave me her wand, but when I had it, _she_ was helpless, so how could I feel comforted then?”

He tugged on Harry’s arm. Harry scooted closer to him.

“But even when I had a wand, that meant nothing. They were stronger than me anyway. And the Dark Lord would have taken much kinder to their killing me for fun, than my injuring them in self-defence. And they could… they could do _anything_.” He pulled Harry harder. Harry put his arms around him.

“I didn’t know what they’d have planned for me next. And you saw some of it. You saw some of what they would make me do.”

During Malfoy’s trial, Harry had described how he’d watched Dumbledore’s death on the Astronomy Tower, and watched through Voldemort’s eyes as Malfoy had been forced to torture Thorfinn Rowle. Harry had also described that he’d seen Malfoy’s utter terror the whole time.

“Anything could have come for me, at any time,” Malfoy whispered, voice choked. “Sleeping means being defenceless. And weak. And so easy to… to do anything to. I had to stay guarded. I _have_ to. Who knows what could come for me if I close my eyes and turn off my brain?”

Harry tightened his grip on him, and buried his face in the back of Malfoy’s neck.

He thought Malfoy was done talking. But, a few moments later, Malfoy started up again. “And then,” he said, voice an entirely different kind of whisper, “I almost burned alive. I tried to capture you, and Crabbe tried to murder you, and then we all almost died, but you saved me. And then you killed the Dark Lord. You _killed_ him. _Forever_. And you made sure everyone else was dead, too, or locked up for good.

“No matter who tries to hurt you, no matter when or how, you always win, and you always beat them, and you always survive. And you always keep everyone else safe, too.”

Malfoy breathed hard, as though he’d just run a marathon. His hands were covering Harry’s where they wrapped around Malfoy’s middle. Malfoy twined their fingers again. “It doesn’t matter if we hate each other. If I fall asleep in front of you, you’ll protect me. Anything can come, and you’ll fight it off before it can get me. Even if I don’t deserve you to.”

He rolled back over in Harry’s arms. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s back, while Harry did the same to him. Malfoy tucked his forehead into Harry’s neck, nose against Harry’s collarbone. “I’m so sorry, Potter. I’m so fucking sorry for everything.”

They stayed just like that, curled up against each other and breathing.

Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak without his voice breaking. Still, he felt it necessary to say three things. “That stuff wasn’t your fault, not really. And you do deserve me to help you.”

“That’s not true. It’s not. I—”

“Shhh. Yes it is.” He swallowed. “And I promise, I don’t hate you.”

A pause stretched. Then, “I don’t hate you, either.”

Harry closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, just holding each other and feeling each other breathe. But finally, finally, they both fell asleep. And when they woke up, they were still tangled up together.


	10. Chapter 10

**Harry**

“What’s this about Pansy Parkinson asking me to compare notes?” asked Hermione at breakfast.

Harry dropped his forehead onto the table with a resounding _thunk_.

“Nothing. Just ignore her. Merlin knows I wish I could.”

“She seemed fairly insistent.”

“Yup. That’s her, all right.”

A pause. Then, “Harry, please lift your head before your hair gets in the marmalade.”

Reluctantly, he sat up again.

“She told me she’s the one who set you and Malfoy up in the first place,” Hermione went on.

Harry’s heart kicked into high gear at the phrasing. _Set him and Malfoy up_. Why, it sounded almost like… almost like…

_Shut up, Harry! Stop thinking about Malfoy like that!_

“Yeah, she was,” Harry said. “That girl does not take no for an answer. She almost _cried_ , Hermione.”

Her lip quirked. “Well, would you like me to compare notes with her?”

“No!”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her tea. “It might make it easier. She said you didn’t want to keep reporting back to both of us separately. Is that right?”

Guilt seized him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that…”

“No, I understand.” Her tone was earnest. “I’m sorry we keep pulling you in so many directions. We just care about your and Malfoy’s wellbeing.”

He nodded. His head hurt, and it wasn’t just because he’d banged it against the table.

“Besides,” she added, smile spreading to cover her full face. “It might help to have the two of us working together. You know. You and Malfoy can go off and do whatever it is you do with each other, and while you're going at it, she and I will make sure you two are staying safe.”

Harry wanted to die. “You’re phrasing it like that on purpose,” he accused.

“Maybe,” she admitted, stifling a giggle.

“Right. Well. Sure, become best friends with Pansy Parkinson. Be my guest.”

“Harry, please don’t misunderstand. You know I’ll support you no matter—”

“Yeah, no matter what. I got it.”

He felt rather bad for his rude behaviour, but a look at her proved it didn’t dampen her mirthful spirits one bit.

He tore into his food resentfully. He knew Hermione was trying to be a good friend, but, Merlin. When did his nightly visits with Draco Malfoy become the least exhausting part of his day?

* * * * *

Harry heard about the accident far too late, in his opinion.

Apparently, Malfoy had been playing a pickup match of Quidditch with his fellow Slytherins after dinner. A Bludger had barreled toward him from behind, and before anyone could warn him, it hit him right in the back of the head and sent Malfoy toppling off the end of his broom. He had fallen from a considerable height, and through someone had frantically cast a Cushioning Charm at the ground a second before he made contact, he’d landed with his arm bent at a disturbing angle. And, of course, he’d been out cold.

Harry had found out about this a whole hour after it had happened. Yes, a whole hour had gone by, during which time Malfoy’d been horribly injured and Harry’d been going about his business in ignorance. Harry was furious.

And, all right, in the scheme of things, one hour wasn’t all that much time. It was, in fact, a relatively speedy transfer of the information to his ears. But not now. Not for something like _this_. Merlin, a whole hour…

“Harry, I know you’re worried about him, but Pomfrey has him in stable condition, and he’ll be all right,” Hermione reminded him, trying to keep up as he ran toward the Hospital Wing.

“I’m not worried about him,” he shot back automatically, out of habit.

Hermione scoffed and didn’t dignify that with a response.

Harry burst into the Hospital Wing. _There_ , in a bed at the end of the aisle, was the familiar white-blond hair that always made Harry’s heart give a leap. He lay there, blankets tucked tightly around him, and his right arm up in a sling. He was still unconscious.

“Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey, walking over and evidently assuming he’d arrived for a medical malady of his own. “What’s the matter today?”

“Malfoy,” he replied, vaguely realising he was panting rather hard from the running and the stress. “I’ve… I’ve got to…”

He strode over to the other boy’s bed at once. Fuck, Malfoy was so pale.

But still, he seemed so peaceful in sleep. Harry had never really had the chance to admire him like this before, too preoccupied with other aspects of their situation to stop and stare at him and just take it in. He looked so soft. So calm. His face was free of any lines, not twisting up in a sneer or a frown or in fear or anything at all. He looked so much younger. He looked… so… _pretty_ ….

“Potter, you may not simply barge into my Hospital Wing like a wild animal and expect me to let you crowd one of my patients,” Pomfrey admonished, coming up from behind him and sounding quite cross. “Malfoy is in a very serious condition. He needs space and time to heal.”

“I know.” Harry didn’t even turn his head away from Malfoy to look at her when he replied. “I’m just worried about him.”

He heard Hermione snort.

“You are worried about Malfoy?” Pomfrey repeated in shock. Right… she absolutely knew about their mutual hatred and various storied attempts at maiming. Harry’s claim must have sounded impossible to her—as it would have sounded to himself a few weeks ago, too.

“Yeah.”

He reached out to smooth some of Malfoy’s hair back from his forehead. He knew Malfoy would like that.

“Potter,” Pomfrey snapped, pushing his hand away. “Do not touch him. If you really are worried, then the best thing you can do for him is leave him be. He needs to rest, and any added stress will only cause him more difficulties.”

“I want him to rest. But I—”

“He’s here to help Malfoy,” Hermione said, walking forward to join them. Pomfrey’s eyebrows shot up at the straight-and-narrow Hermione Granger’s complicity in this affair. “Harry has every intention of letting Malfoy rest as much as possible. That’s why he’s here, in fact. Pansy Parkinson told me that you and she discussed Malfoy’s insomnia a while back, and that you agreed to prescribe him a Sleeping Draught. Is that true?”

 _Damn, she and Pansy really have been comparing notes_ , Harry thought. He had to say he was impressed with their efficiency.

Pomfrey nodded, looking confused at the detour in conversation.

While she was distracted, Harry resumed stroking Malfoy’s hair.

“Well,” Hermione went on, “Malfoy didn’t find that an effective remedy, as you can tell, seeing as he never continued to fill the prescription after the first dose. However, what he _has_ found to be an effective remedy is Harry’s company.”

“Excuse me?” Pomfrey baulked.

“Yes, it sounds rather surprising, I must admit. However, his insomnia appears greatly improved whenever Harry is with him. It helps him relax. Apparently, if he wakes up and Harry’s not in the room, he has severe panic attacks.”

This seemed to throw the nurse. Still, Pomfrey looked highly sceptical. She cast beady eyes at Harry.

However, something in her expression shifted when her gaze fell on Harry’s hand. On the way he touched Malfoy. He didn’t know what he looked like to her. But something she saw in the gesture seemed to change her mind.

“Very well,” she concluded, turning away briskly. “You may keep him company. However, I am not sure how long he’ll stay asleep. He may even sleep through the night—and I’ll not wake him, no matter what other odd requests you try to make.”

Harry and Hermione both shook their heads vehemently in response.

“I wouldn’t want to wake him, either,” Harry assured her. “Could I maybe just sit next to him? In a chair, or something?”

Pomfrey paused again. Then, resignedly, she nodded. “If you insist.”

With that, she walked away to tend to other matters.

Harry smiled, relieved. He pulled up a chair on the side of the bed, next to Malfoy’s uninjured left arm, and plopped down. He ran his fingers over Malfoy’s arm soothingly.

Even if Malfoy couldn’t feel it in his sleep, it definitely helped soothe Harry, for sure.

After a few moments, it dawned on him that Hermione was still standing at the foot of the bed, staring at him.

He glanced up, flushing. “Er, thanks a bunch, Hermione,” he said earnestly. “You really saved the day there.”

“No problem.” She stepped back, looking poised to leave. “Just. Well. Good luck, I suppose. And don’t forget to put a Cushioning Charm on that chair; we know how those things can murder someone’s back.”

He nodded, remembering all the times they’d sat at each other’s bedsides over the years. “You are a fantastic person,” he professed. He meant it so, so much.

She grinned at him, and then left the Hospital Wing.

Evening shifted to night, and soon Pomfrey bade him sleep well. She disappeared through a side door, ostensibly into her own bedroom, and the darkened room was doused in silence.

Honestly, it should have been boring, but Harry was becoming quickly accustomed to the gentle serenity of nights with Draco Malfoy. Listening to his breaths, feeling his body wherever Harry was touching it, letting the quiet wash over him. It was peaceful, and nice, and at least in his own head, Harry had finally come to terms with the fact that he actively enjoyed the experience.

He laced the fingers of his right hand with Malfoy’s. The feeling of their palms pressed snug against each other grounded him. He swiped his thumb in little circles over the back of Malfoy’s hand.

Another hour passed like this. And then, Malfoy stirred. A sniff, then a twitch of his head. Then his eyes blinked open.

Before Malfoy could finish forming his alarmed gasp, Harry surged forward so he was in Malfoy’s line of sight, and squeezed his hand tightly.

“I’m here,” Harry said quickly, watching the lines between Malfoy’s eyebrows soften away from terror and morph into plain confusion.

“W-what happened—”

“Quidditch accident,” Harry explained. “Arsehole Bludger, as always. You got pretty banged up, but the point is you’re all right, and Pomfrey will have you good as new in no time.”

Malfoy’s gaze turned toward his arm in the sling. “I can’t feel my hand.”

“Yeah, that happens.” He gave Malfoy’s uninjured hand another squeeze to make up for it. “It’ll heal soon, I promise.”

Malfoy stared at the sling for a moment longer, then nodded and turned his head back to Harry.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry shrugged, offering a half smile. “You were unconscious. Couldn’t leave you alone like that, now could I?”

Malfoy’s face twisted. “I—I—how long was—”

“Just an hour before I got here, and people were tending to you the whole time,” he insisted, before Malfoy could jump to the conclusion he’d been all alone and unprotected in such a state. “I showed up as soon as I could, I promise. That was a few hours ago, and I’ve been here with you ever since.”

Malfoy swallowed. He was staring at Harry like… like Harry didn’t know what.

A silence passed for a while between them. Then finally, “Will you be able to stay?”

“Absolutely. I talked to Pomfrey about it and everything.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Malfoy squeezed Harry’s hand. Harry’s heart did a happy little flip.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Malfoy shrugged with his one good arm. “Like shit, obviously.” He gave a small laugh, but Harry knew Malfoy’s laughs well enough by now to note the shakiness in this one.

“Stressed?” he ventured.

“What the hell do you think?” Malfoy scoffed, without heat.

Harry nodded. All right, then.

With the hand not attached to Malfoy’s, he reached over and slid it across Malfoy’s chest over the blankets.

Malfoy jerked in surprise. “What are you doing?”

It was Harry’s turn to scoff this time. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks like you’re bloody petting me, Potter.”

“Five points to Slytherin. Yes, I am bloody petting you, Malfoy.”

“ _Why_?”

“So you can feel me, you arsehole. Same as always.”

Malfoy swallowed again. He didn’t take his eyes off Harry’s hand. “Potter, you don’t have to—”

“Is it helping?”

He was probably imagining it, but he thought he could feel a rapid heartbeat under his hand.

Malfoy didn’t answer. The grip on Harry’s right fingers tightened.

Harry slipped his right hand up to the top of the sheet and then under it. Malfoy let out a gasp, jerking again. Harry brushed slowly across Malfoy’s chest over his shirt, up and down and side to side and all around, wherever he could. Malfoy was breathing differently now, a little louder.

“How’s this?” Harry whispered. “Better?” He wasn’t sure when his voice got so quiet and so rough. But there it was.

“Er, I…” Malfoy’s mouth was open slightly, lips parted the tiniest fraction. “Yeah.”

Harry continued that for a while, just stroking, petting over Malfoy’s shirt.

Malfoy had said he wanted to feel Harry, that Harry’s touch helped dissolve the fear and the anxiety, made him feel safe. Strange as Harry’s current actions might be if Harry stopped to analyse them, he could sense as Malfoy’s whole demeanor was changing. The stress of waking up injured in a Hospital Wing bed was melting away. Harry could literally feel it against his hand.

Then, he glided his hand to the hem of Malfoy’s shirt. And, slowly, he slid underneath it.

“Potter,” Malfoy hissed, eyes flying open and body jolting hard. His left hand flew up as though to abort Harry’s movements, but it was still entwined with Harry’s. Malfoy's hand dropped back down to the mattress again, and he didn’t try to free it.

“This okay?” Harry asked, stilling. The skin was so hot where he touched it. And intoxicatingly soft.

Malfoy’s breaths sounded loud and shaky. He looked up at the ceiling, panting. He was so beautiful.

This unbidden thought surprised Harry less than it should have, but it scared the hell out of him nonetheless. He distracted himself from it by sliding his hand over Malfoy’s torso again.

Malfoy nodded, a little jerkily. Harry’s hand was just a bump underneath the covers, moving. Harry watched it journey around, all the while feeling as Malfoy’s hot skin seemed to come alive under his touch.

He remembered when his touch used to have other powers, like burning Professor Quirrell to death. He liked the power he had _now_ much, much better.

“H-Harry,” Malfoy whispered.

It was so faint. So quiet. So seemingly automatic, like Malfoy didn’t even realise he’d said it. Harry’s own heart rate picked up speed.

Harry continued like this, until Malfoy’s eyes had drifted completely shut and his breathing turned full and deep.

How had Harry never known this side to him? How had he never known it could be this way?

He came to a decision.

“Here, budge up,” he said, standing from his seat.

“What?” In addition to obviously confused, Malfoy sounded groggy, dazed.

“Can I come in? I won’t be able to touch you after I fall asleep if I’m in this chair.”

Malfoy hesitated for approximately two seconds, then nodded. He scooted over as much as he could while still attached to the sling and still half-sore-half-numb from the injuries and healing potions.

After much shifting, they finally ended up beneath the covers. The small bed forced them tightly together, in a snug and not particularly comfortable squeeze. Still, Harry got to wrap his arms around Malfoy, both of them now under his shirt, and he got to bury his face in Malfoy’s neck from behind.

He let himself get lost in the softness, in the heat, in the feeling of Malfoy’s breathing.

As he lay there, Harry determined some things.

Firstly, he determined that he absolutely could not stand the idea of Malfoy being hurt.

Secondly, he determined that being with Malfoy was perhaps the most enjoyable thing he had ever allowed himself to do.

And lastly, he determined that he loved it. Everything about it. Everything.


	11. Chapter 11

**Draco**

Draco woke up again in the early morning. The sun was bright in the sky, streaming through the windows and painting the whole room white gold.

Pomfrey was standing over his bed, placing a cold compress over his forehead and giving him the most peculiar look she had ever directed at him.

That was because… Oh.

It was because… well…

Potter. Was asleep in the bed. Smushed up very closely against Draco’s body. The blanket had shifted overnight and now pooled around their waists, so Draco’s torso was fully on display. To be more specific, it was fully on display how Potter’s right hand was wrapped underneath Draco and curled back up, splaying across Draco’s chest beneath his thin shirt. No wonder she was looking at him that way.

However, also, oh no. Privately, Draco quickly processed something else.

Under the blanket, out of Pomfrey’s view, Potter’s left arm was slung over Draco’s hip. And… oh, _fuck…._ He was glad for the cold compress now because he felt positively feverish.

Potter’s hand was cupped over his pants, around Draco’s cock.

His body twitched before he could stop himself. But at Pomfrey’s narrowed eyes, he forced himself to still. Even though that meant leaving Potter’s hand firmly in place.

He had never been more grateful for a blanket. As it bunched up at his waist, it hid the exact location of Potter’s hand; it just looked like his arm was wrapped around Draco’s hip, at most.

Pomfrey couldn’t see it. She didn’t know that Potter was touching him _there_ , didn’t know that Draco was harder than he’d ever been in his life. That Draco’s entire world seemed to be zeroed in on how that scorching hot hand felt wrapped around him, too lightly not to drive him mad, but too tightly to be anything but lethal.

She didn’t know any of that. But Draco did.

“Ma-Madam—ah, good morning,” he choked out.

He had to move Potter’s hand. He had to. But he couldn’t be conspicuous at all about it, lest Pomfrey notice anything.

“Good morning,” she replied slowly. She was still eyeing him. “How did you sleep?”

Draco barked out an involuntary and altogether way too loud laugh. Fuck, he was sweating so hard. “Fi-fine. Perfectly fine.”

“Just so,” she nodded. Her lips were pursed. “You should know that it is highly unorthodox for me to have allowed Potter to sleep with you last night.”

“Sleep with—” he echoed, the words doing terrible things to him. The effort it was taking not to thrust his hips forward was going to burst a blood vessel in his eye.

“Yes. However, Miss Granger explained the situation to me. Malfoy, have you considered seeing a mind healer about this?”

That sobered him. (At least, as much at it could sober him when Harry Potter’s hand was still wrapped around his cock. So, not incredibly much, but.) “No, I don’t want to talk to anyone about it.”

“I recognise that such a thing might be uncomfortable to consider. However, seeing a mind healer is nothing to be ashamed of. It typically proves to be highly beneficial.”

“I don’t need one. I’m not mad.”

“You don’t have to be ‘mad’ to seek help.” She sighed as though she’d given this lecture a hundred times, which she probably had. “Talking through your struggles with a professional can benefit anyone, with anything—no matter how big or how small the issue may seem. To be frank with you, I think the world would be vastly improved if everyone saw a mind healer.”

That gave him pause. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She looked like she meant it, too. “So, what do you think?”

He considered this. He wondered if there might be merit to what she had said.

But, he was also slightly preoccupied. He edged his free elbow back and tried to nudge Potter’s arm away. Potter shifted and readjusted his grip, and Draco almost blacked out.

“Malfoy?” the nurse prompted.

“Sorry, just—just tired,” he said. His voice sounded ridiculous, reedy, thin. He was ten seconds away from humping Potter’s hand into oblivion. He had to—he had to—

“Indeed. Well, I would like to meet with you to discuss this further. Does your schedule allow you to drop by tonight, perhaps after dinner?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s, ah, _perfect_.”

He could barely focus on her anymore. He needed her to leave. He needed to finish. He hated and loved Potter’s hand in equal measure, and Pomfrey needed to get out of there right now or Draco was going to lose it right in front of her.

“Good. I shall send an official notice on Hogwarts letterhead to remind you of the appointment, and which you may use to excuse yourself from any other engagements at that time.” She straightened. “You should regain feeling in your hand within the next two hours, at which time I will remove it from the sling and administer the next potion. That will be all for now.”

She turned away, and Draco’s will held out for approximately three and a half more seconds. Then, he shoved his left hand under the covers and pressed it against Potter’s, grinding Potter’s palm against his cock. He thrust into it again and again, completely mad with it, not thinking about anything at all besides how fantastic it felt, and the fact that it was Potter doing it to him.

Potter’s body stretched all around him in that way he loved, and Potter’s smell was everywhere, and Draco’s muscles were clenching tight and he was going to—he was going to—

He turned his head into his pillow and bit down to muffle his sounds as he came.

He shook with it, stars exploding everywhere, world nothing but euphoria and Potter and more euphoria.

When it finally receded, and he twitched through aftershocks, he removed his face from his pillow and took stock of the situation.

Well, that had been fucked up.

Potter hadn’t meant to touch him; the bloke had been _asleep_. Draco wasn’t allowed to have enjoyed it, wasn’t allowed to use Potter’s body with reckless abandon and come from it. No, no, absolutely against all codes of ethics, even Draco’s own warped ones.

Well. Luckily, Potter was still asleep. So, he simply must never learn of this.

Also, Draco had come in his pants. That was disgusting. And his wand—fuck—was all the way over on the nightstand, way too far for him to reach with one arm in this stupid sling.

Shit. Okay. Perhaps this was his punishment for what he’d just done.

(Unfortunately, he was fully able to recognise that the punishment not even slightly outweighed how amazing the crime had been.)

Carefully, he disengaged Potter’s hand and settled it into a neutral position, resting against Potter’s side. The hand under Draco’s body, though, Draco couldn’t do much about, but at least he pushed at it so it wasn’t dangerously close to his nipple anymore.

Despite his rightful guilt, he drifted off to sleep again soon.

* * * * *

Pansy was sitting next to his bed when Draco woke up next.

He gasped and jerked upright—but then stopped his motions halfway, when he felt Potter’s arms wrapped around his midsection. No need to disturb the other bloke for no reason. Besides, as always, it felt lovely.

“Pans!” he yelped, although careful to keep his voice low enough not to wake Potter. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t mind me,” she said, expression entirely too calm. She gestured to the book open in her lap. “Just catching up on some light reading. Didn’t plan to bother you.”

“I repeat: what are you doing _here_?”

She glanced down for a moment toward Draco’s left hand, which had drifted down absentmindedly to stroke over one of Potter’s. Draco stilled immediately, mortified. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.

Her next words, though, sounded completely sincere. “I wanted to check on you. Granger told me you were safe with Potter, but obviously I wanted to see if you were okay. You are okay, aren’t you?”

He nodded, realising that he was. He wanted to gripe about it, play up the histrionics and complain about his injuries until the thestrals came home. However, the guilt from his recent illicit actions with the unconscious Gryffindor made him rather reticent. Moreover, Potter’s touch had magical qualities that made Draco overall much less inclined to complain. He just wanted to sink back into the pillows and breathe Potter in.

Merlin, perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he’d thought.

“Yes, I’m okay,” he added aloud, to force himself out of his own thoughts. “Thanks for checking in. You’re the best.”

She winked. “And don’t you forget it, darling.”

He smiled back at her sweetly in acknowledgement of her stroked ego.

A moment of silence fell, and Draco wondered if now was indeed the moment to confront her about… all of this. He had contemplated it long and hard since Potter told him of Pansy’s involvement, and he’d determined he didn’t want a fight. He had matured a great deal within the past few months, and a great deal, in turn, within the past few weeks. And despite the fact that not too long ago he would have screamed at her for defying his wishes and meddling in his life, he knew she had done it out of genuine care for him. And besides… he end up liking the results more than he’d ever have anticipated.

“Listen. Pans.” He cleared his throat, unsure how to bring this up. “About, erm. About this whole thing. Potter told me how you made it happen.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And I… er…” He swallowed. “I appreciate what you did.”

Her brows were practically at her hairline now. “Really?”

“Really. I don’t exactly love you meddling…”—She gave a knowing smile—“but you care a lot about me, and it shows. Thank you for that. I’ve been a lot better recently, and that’s all because of your help. I don’t know what things would be like if you hadn’t stepped in.”

She shrugged, still smiling. “You’d probably be dead in a ditch by now, or something. You drama queen.”

He snorted. “You know what? Probably.”

Potter’s hand on Draco’s stomach twitched, and Draco resumed stroking it for a moment, before getting ahold of himself and stopping again before Pansy could see. “Honestly, though, I’m surprised you didn’t figure I’d rather die than let Potter help me.”

“Oh, I did figure. But you were already acting like you wanted to die, period. So I wasn’t really going to listen, no matter what you said.”

“Ah. Right.” He bit his lip and looked down guiltily. “That makes sense. Sorry.”

He didn’t see her face, but he heard the shift in her tone when she added, “But I also didn’t give much credence anyway, to what you’d claim to rather.”

Draco looked back up at her. “What? What do you mean?”

“About you and Potter.”

“What?” he repeated, genuinely perplexed.

She took a deep breath, and then held eye contact with him. “Let’s just say, I figured you wouldn’t hate him helping you nearly as much as you’d act like you did.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully over Potter, and his hand on Draco’s stomach. Perhaps she hadn’t missed the way he’d stroked Potter’s skin, after all. “You might not have admitted otherwise, but I know you, Draco. And I think I know you a bit better than _that_.”

Fuck. What? Fuck.

His heart was short-circuiting, as was his brain. What did she even...? But?

Whatever counterargument he desperately wanted to make, he was incapable of attempting it, because his throat had officially lost all powers of speech.

He begged the Fates to make sure Potter was still totally asleep and unaware of Pansy’s words.

Draco also fervently wished the Bludger would knock him out again. Then he wouldn’t have to think about her words for one more moment.

Pansy closed her book and tucked it into the bag at her feet. “How’s your arm?”

He hated her nonchalance. He was also unfairly grateful for it. “All right,” he said after a few seconds, voice shaky. He willed himself to go along with her subject change, and to forget everything else. “Still numb, but I suppose that’s a fair sight better than throbbing in agony, so I’ll take it.” He shifted uncomfortably, the dried come in his pants making itself known to him again. “Although, I’d appreciate you passing me my wand, if you don’t mind.”

She did so, and didn’t voice her slight confusion when he sat there with it in his hand, not using it. Whatever. Perhaps he just liked the comfort of holding it with him, all right?

“Well,” he muttered after a moment. “So, you and Granger are talking now?”

“Indeed. She’s not so bad, all things considered. And she’s loads more insightful than you two idiots are.”

“Hey!” he whined indignantly.

“Hush,” she said, more than a bit teasingly. “Wouldn’t want to wake ickle Harry, now, would we?”

He glared, flushing hard. Fuck, he _definitely_ hoped there wasn’t even the smallest part of Potter’s subconscious that registered Pansy’s words right now. “Fuck you. You’re the one who orchestrated all this in the first place.”

“That I am,” she said cheerily. “You’re welcome.”

With that, she pranced out of there, far too perky for the early hour. He stared daggers into her back the whole way out the door.

Merlin's bollocks, but that conversation had been mental. He shook his head to clear it.

Now that he was alone again, he immediately cast the much-needed _Scourgify_ that righted the situation in his pants. It was awkward to do so with his non-dominant hand, but it served its purpose nonetheless. Then, with a sigh of relief, he allowed himself to slowly relax against the mattress, fully wrapped in Potter’s embrace once more.

He definitely shouldn’t be allowing himself to joy in Potter’s body so much, he reflected. Not after what he’d done earlier this morning. But, fuck if it didn’t feel good. And Draco was not used to feeling so good, hadn’t been for a long time.

He felt completely rested now—this in itself a marvel—so he just lay there contentedly and soaked up everything this embrace had to offer. He wondered idly whether or not this might be something he’d be able to keep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Harry**

Harry blinked awake at the sound of Pomfrey and Malfoy talking. She was giving Malfoy a healing potion, Harry gathered.

The sun shone brightly, high in the sky. He knew it was relatively late to wake up, by now. He didn’t know why he felt so tired, except that his sleep had been filled with so many dreams.

His dreams had contained things that made him blush violently now to remember. He had no idea where his subconscious had gotten the nerve to come up with something so... explicit. Except that he supposed it had been a long time coming, what with how confused this whole situation had been making him over the past few weeks.

Last night, he’d dreamed that he and Malfoy were touching each other. Really touching each other. He’d dreamed that he heard Malfoy softly moaning against him, as Harry grasped at his erection over his clothes—the way Harry had done before, but that this time he’d kept doing it until Malfoy came. He’d dreamed that he felt Malfoy’s erection pulsing in his hand as he rubbed him to completion. And he’d dreamed of Malfoy twitching, shaking, whimpering, falling apart in Harry’s arms.

Harry shivered involuntarily at the thought of it. Fuck, and it all had felt so real, too. He’d even have gone as far as to believe it had really happened, except that there was no way it could have without the whole world exploding.

He lay there for a few moments, straining to remember anything else. Not that he _should,_ of course. It would probably be for the best if he forced himself to forget about all the images his mind had created for him in his sleep. He definitely shouldn’t be wracking his brain to dig up every tiny detail of dream-Malfoy clutching at him as he came. Harry definitely shouldn’t be trying to store it all in long-term memory, and _definitely_ shouldn’t be heavily considering using it for wank material for the next few decades at least.

Fuck, it had been so deliciously vivid. So much so that it really did seem real. But, if he strained, he could also remember other things, like Pansy Parkinson’s voice saying, “ickle Harry”, which was exactly the kind of absurdity his brain would concoct now that Voldemort wasn’t controlling his dreams anymore. So, he shook his head, and willed himself to wake up all the way.

He sat up, pushing his hair haphazardly out of his face.

“Oh, finally,” Malfoy said, turning his head to look at Harry and smiling sunnily at him.

Harry froze, gobsmacked. Since when could Malfoy smile at him? Like _that_?

Malfoy seemed to register the cause for Harry’s surprise a moment later. He froze, too, looking equally surprised at himself. They stared at each other.

“I was, er,” Malfoy said, looking away and clearing his throat loudly, “tired of having to whisper around you.”

“Right,” Harry nodded, clearing his throat, too. He turned the other way and grabbed his glasses off the bedside table. He felt incredibly fidgety now.

“Malfoy,” Pomfrey said, the only one who was unfazed by whatever had just happened between them. “The potion.”

“Oh! Yes.” He sounded grateful for the reminder.

He downed the contents of his phial in one go, then shuddered strongly. “Merlin, that stuff is awful.”

Pomfrey pursed her lips, unamused. “I don’t feel the particular need to remind you that this potion is the difference between ever using your hand again and not.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and nodded, doing a rather spot-on duplication of Pomfrey’s expression.

Evidently, she deemed Malfoy too annoying to be worth more of her time, because she took back the empty phial and walked off.

Harry and Malfoy sat in silence for a while.

“So,” Harry said finally. “Your arm’s out of the sling.”

“What? Oh, yeah. Good to have my hand back again.” He smiled, which looked slightly forced.

Harry nodded. “Do you know how long you’ll need to stay here?”

“Two more hours, she said.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet, and he still didn’t make eye contact with Harry.

“All right.”

“You, er, you obviously shouldn’t stay the whole time.”

“I shouldn’t?”

“No, that’d be ridiculous. Why would you hang around here if I’m not even asleep?”

Harry tried hard not to be hurt by that, and especially tried not to think about the various reasons he wanted to hang around Malfoy when he wasn’t asleep.

“Well, I suppose now’s a rather good time to snag some breakfast,” Harry said. He cast a Tempus Charm to check, and learned it was half ten. It was Sunday, so the Great Hall would still be set. “I could bring some back for you.”

“What?” Malfoy looked up at him now. His grey eyes were so bright in the window light that they practically glowed.

It wouldn’t be fair for Harry to just leave him alone without aid for food, he reasoned. Malfoy didn’t have to seem so confused at the offer. “Breakfast. You’ll be here for two more hours, and if you insist you’ll be awake the whole time, then you’ll be hungry. Should I bring you something?”

Malfoy blinked at him. His eyes were rather wide, and when he spoke, he sounded shocked. “That… that would be brilliant, actually.”

Harry nodded and stood, looking away quickly. Those eyes did strange things to the tightness of Harry’s chest. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait, don’t you need me to tell you what to bring?”

Harry shrugged. “Has your taste changed since sixth year?”

He heard Malfoy snort amusedly. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then I know what to bring.” He wasn’t sure what made him admit it, but he figured he and Malfoy had done enough bizarreness and intimacy and truth-telling by now; there was no reason to deny what they both already knew had taken place sixth year.

To his relief, he heard Malfoy laugh. “For once, your stalking me actually proves beneficial. Well, all right, Potter. I bid thee go forth and fetch me sustenance.”

Harry left the room to do just that. And he was glad Malfoy couldn’t see the ridiculously wide smile that spread across Harry’s face as he did so.

Merlin, Harry had it bad, didn’t he?

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco had not managed to come to better terms with their breakfast arrangement by the time Potter came back. When he re-entered, he did so by nudging the door open with his hip, and it stunned Draco all over again how much that boy’s presence lit up a room.

This made rather uncomfortable alterations to Draco’s heartbeat, truth be told. He tried to distract himself by looking elsewhere, but his other options were Potter’s sexily curved smile, his endearingly ruffled hair, or the food and drinks Potter was levitating into the room as a token of his thoughtfulness and care. And, _fuck_ , but these were counterproductive alternatives.

“Here you go,” hummed Potter, busying himself with putting their plates down on the bedside table and adjusting his chair.

“Thank you,” Draco said, still amazed that this was really his life. He looked at what Potter had brought him. “I—you really do know what I like for breakfast.”

Potter shrugged and gave a _what can I say?_ sort of smile. “I mean, comes with the territory I guess, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” Draco reached for a croissant carefully. He paused for a few moments, contemplating whether or not the following would be wise to say. He determined that it was not, and yet still could not stop his mouth from adding, “Pumpkin juice, scrambled eggs, toast with jam, potatoes, and whatever else you can fit on your plate at a given time.”

Potter stared at him for a moment, processing, and then broke out into a grin that pierced Draco somewhere between his heart and his stomach. “Got it in one.”

Draco took his due time to preen. “Of course I did. Long live the king.”

“Oh, please.” Potter rolled his eyes in a way that Draco could almost interpret to be fondly. “You were probably cheating. My plate’s right here.”

“But I wasn’t looking, and you know it!”

“Yeah,” he admitted, lifting his pumpkin juice in a cheers. “Bully for us, being obsessed with each other for years.”

Draco’s lungs squeezed painfully. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t both already known of their mutual preoccupation with each other, of course. But the phrase hit a bit too close to home, given how recent things had been panning out. It took on a meaning that Draco wasn’t entirely sure he had the strength to admit out loud.

But Potter’s outstretched arm was waiting to clink glasses, so Draco lifted his own and weakly chimed them together. Besides, if Potter could admit being obsessed with him, at least Draco could take comfort in that when he made the admission back.

They ate their breakfast in silence for a while, the only noise the sound of fork and knife as Draco gingerly cut up his food, and that of Potter shoveling eggs into his mouth with his trademark speed.

Draco had always been captivated by the display over the years, simultaneously unnervedby such animalism and curious just what the hell Potter thought he was doing. And all at once, it occurred to Draco that now he finally had an opportunity to ask.

“So,” he said. Potter paused mid-bite and looked up at him. Draco resolutely vowed not to find such flagrant disregard of proper etiquette cute. “Why do you always scarf down your meals like your life depends on it? I’d think after years of Hogwarts dining you’d know the elves don’t vanish the food so immediately.”

Potter shrugged, chewing more slowly than Draco had ever seen him. He felt rather guilty now, not wanting to make the other boy so self-conscious.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Potter assured him, swallowing what was left in his mouth. “I, er. Y’know.” He shrugged again, looking awkward. “I have experience not getting much to eat, and having food taken away a lot. And I guess old habits die hard.”

It took Draco a few moments of confusion to decipher this. And when he did, he still wasn’t sure he understood. Certainly Potter didn’t mean… “You mean, outside of Hogwarts? As in…”

“Yeah.” Potter took a deep breath, looking up from his lap back at Draco. “Listen, I know most of my life is all over the tabloids anyway, but I’d still appreciate you not going around to everyone about that. It’s… I don’t love having to talk about this stuff to strangers, or hearing other people talk about it, and…”

“No, of course,” Draco insisted, upset Potter could think he would do such a thing—and that this was a concern Potter ever had to worry about, period. “I’m really sorry. I never…”

“It’s fine. You were just curious. I know I probably have the worst table manners you’ve ever witnessed.”

“I assure you, you don’t. Fenrir Greyback does, by far.”

The horrifying words left Draco’s mouth without permission, but before he knew it, Potter was laughing. “Damn, Malfoy, okay. I don’t know how offended I should be here, given that the bar is _that_ low for me.”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh a bit, too. He leaned into the humourous route Potter presented to him, and replied, “Well, everyone needs a bit of a confidence boost time and again. And now that you know you’re not the worst possible specimen, maybe you can watch me, the real expert in proper etiquette, and slowly improve your technique.”

“Maybe.” Potter took a swig of his juice. “Might take a while, though.”

“We’ve got time.”

A blush bloomed full-force on Draco’s face after he uttered this risky remark. He made a big to-do out of arranging the fruit on his plate, so Potter wouldn’t see it.

Silence continued a while more. But it was comfortable. The kind of comfortable Draco never could’ve imagined the brash Gryffindor ever being capable of.

To think, all those years he’d grown up idolising Harry Potter, imagining him as this perfect person who had everything going for him... and all those years thereafter, when he’d resented Potter for getting everything handed to him all the time. And in reality, it couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Draco thought back to everything else he’d heard about the other boy's life but doubted—about a tiny cupboard under stairs, about ill-fitting clothes that were never his own, about being called a freak every day...

Draco pushed himself to speak past the bile rising in his throat.

“Thanks for telling me that,” he said quietly, leaning back on his pillows now that he’d finished his plate. “I never… I never thought the rumours were true.”

Potter gave a rueful tilt of his head and pushed his own empty plate away. “Probably for the best. I hate how everyone and their crup has so much information about my private life. I’d rather control who I tell about these things, and when.”

A warmth and a foolish hope swelled up in Draco’s chest despite his best efforts to quash them. “So, are you… are you okay with me knowing, then?”

“Of course. I mean, it’s only fair, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.” He took a deep breath. A soft feeling was growing in him and he didn’t know what to do with it. Draco scooted over on the bed. “Care to join?”

Potter took all of a moment to mull this over. Draco would have paid anything to see what was going on in his head. But then he stood up and said a simple, “Sure,” before crawling in next to Draco and looping an arm over his shoulders.

Draco tried and failed to stop the fireworks from exploding in his chest. He hoped to Merlin he was subtle in the way he sank slightly deeper into Potter’s embrace, when the other boy seemed sufficiently distracted.


	13. Chapter 13

**Draco**

Draco had forgotten about his agreement with Pomfrey until he got back to his bedroom and found, neatly folded atop his pillow, the official reminder of his appointment with her. He groaned out loud. Why did she have to actually be good at her job?

He flung himself onto his bed, throwing his newly-healed arm over his eyes and whining dejectedly to himself. Fuck mind healers. Fuck his possible need for mind healing. Fuck it all.

* * * * *

He arrived at Pomfrey’s office, and she led him inside. He sat in the chair in front of her desk.

The first thing she did was pass him a few pamphlets. One on insomnia, one on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, one on possible therapeutic resources.

Then she made him discuss everything.

He refused at first. He felt bile rise in his throat just contemplating it. But Pomfrey just waited patiently, with a welcoming but firm sort of expression. She asked him simple questions, body language open and nonjudgmental, but with a sort of businesslike confidence that somehow made him feel safer. He wavered, but his resolve began to slip. He felt it couldn't be too terrible if he answered her questions just a little. She was the Head Nurse, after all.

He started slowly, tentatively, first with one-word answers and then with more. And then, finally, the floodgates opened. He told her everything.

The ordeal was much more drawn out this time than it had been with Potter. Pomfrey asked follow-up questions and made him elaborate on uncomfortable details that Potter hadn’t. What was more, when Draco had been with Potter, Potter’s touch had helped smooth out the anxiety and freak-out-ness that had rapidly built at moments of Draco’s discomfort.

Now, Potter wasn’t here.

Every moment of discomfort settled within him, piling on top of the last moment. His heart was pounding erratically and he was, _shit_ , he was literally uncontrollably crying now.

Pomfrey didn’t stop him from crying, although she passed him a box of tissues, which he used gratefully and copiously. She didn’t comment on it, or let her face betray anything but attentiveness, and a bit of warmth—the first time he’d ever seen such warmth on her face at all.

Finally, when he had no more left to tell and his chest was heaving and his throat was raw, he buried his head in his hands, and just wept.

A few minutes passed this way. Then, Pomfrey said, “Thank you for sharing that with me. I know it was very difficult for you.”

He tried to nod, but wasn’t sure how successful he was at moving his head. He let out another involuntary, racking sob.

“Let it all out," she told him, which was such an infuriating cliché. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but comply with zeal. "You've done a wonderful job here. You should be proud of yourself."

He had no idea how she could possibly mean that—could possibly _say_ that. Was she even in the same room as him, seeing what he was seeing? All he'd done was be a blubbering, pathetic wreck. He wanted to argue but his attempt just dissolved into more sobbing.

She went on, gently. "The biggest question that’s left to ask is, do you want help?”

He wanted to say no. He didn’t need help. Help was humiliating. And he hated confronting this. He hated it more than just about anything.

But instead, he found himself nodding again, more definitively this time.

“That is wonderful to hear." She sounded genuinely pleased, too. Draco refused to look up and see her face. "I believe the best course of action is to find you a mind healer to speak with on a regular basis. I shall contact someone, who can visit you here at Hogwarts. How does that sound?”

He nodded a third time. He didn’t feel like he had the energy or ability to speak anymore.

“All right. Thank you so much for your cooperation in this. I recognise that it must be profoundly difficult to address such things." _Understatement of the century_ , Draco thought bitterly, glaring into his tear-soaked palms. "I will let you know when you will have your first meeting. Do you have a preference for the age or gender of your counselor?”

He shook his head no. Unless a possible preference was “nonexistent”, he didn’t have any opinions on what he wanted in a counselor. He’d feel miserable no matter what.

“Very well. I will see you soon. And, before you go…”

He looked up, and saw that she was holding out a bar of chocolate.

* * * * *

Draco ate the chocolate on his way to his dormitory. It improved his spirits slightly. But, while the marginal improvement helped his tears abate, it did not settle the bone-deep dread that had coiled within him as he’d relived all his nightmares. And when the chocolate was gone, and he reached the dormitory, he was already shaking again.

He wanted to hole up in his room and never emerge. He cast quick cleaning charms at himself so he wouldn’t have to make trips out for the rest of the night. He flung his door open and quickly shut it behind him again.

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold wooden frame, trying not to let his legs give out.

* * * * *

**Harry**

“Malfoy?” Harry asked.

Malfoy jumped, whirling around with a cry of alarm and his wand at the ready.

The Slytherin had been later than usual returning to his room, so Harry had let himself into wait for him. He knew it might be overstepping, but he and Malfoy had been doing quite a lot of overstepping lately, and it hadn’t killed either of them yet.

Upon seeing who it was who’d startled him, Malfoy let his wand arm drop, and sagged back against the door.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, standing up from the desk and moving toward him.

“Just—just—” Malfoy said. He looked like he was having trouble getting the words out. “Pomfrey made me—talk about it.”

“Oh,” Harry said. _Wow_. “I’m sorry.”

Malfoy nodded jerkily, looking away.

He seemed different from the other times. He even seemed different from how he’d been in the midst of the panic attack—that had been a brief moment of spiked anxiety, and Harry had been able to calm it with targeted tactics. But based on what he was seeing here, it seemed like Malfoy had been sitting in this discomfort for a long time. The stress seemed permeate through his whole body, and take deep root there.

“Hey,” Harry whispered. “Can I…?”

Malfoy nodded. He didn’t seem to care what Harry did. Perhaps, Harry supposed, Malfoy figured anything would be better than this.

Harry walked forward. No sudden movements. Just a slow travel closer, until he was right in front of Malfoy.

Tentatively, Harry reached out his left hand and placed a hand on Malfoy’s upper arm. Malfoy breathed out slightly through his nose, but held still.

Harry’s left hand slid forward. A careful brush of his fingertips to Malfoy’s waist, then his whole hand against it when it met no resistance.

With his right hand, he reached out and gently cupped the side of Malfoy’s face, fingertips in his hair, thumb lightly stroking over his cheek. Meanwhile, his left hand slid in wide strokes over his torso, spanning from his hip to his ribs, and from his hip to his back. Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered.

He was staring at the floor, a giant ball of tension. Slowly, watching his face for any signs of added discomfort, Harry slipped his hand under Malfoy’s shirt.

Malfoy drew in a sharp breath. But he did not move in any other way, or even look up from the ground.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked. His voice was so quiet.

Malfoy nodded, still staring at the floor.

He mapped the warmth and softness of Malfoy’s skin. He remembered it from the night before—he may never be able to diminish the intensity of that memory in his head—but even so, it shocked him all over again. How lovely it felt, how right. How the Draco Malfoy he’d thought he hated, had had this warmth and softness to him all along.

Slowly, as his hand slid over Malfoy’s side, he dipped his fingers a little lower, just slightly under the waistband of Malfoy’s trousers. They slid back out again immediately, but the effect was undeniable. Malfoy’s eyebrows flew up from their crushing furrow. And his lips, once pressed together in a bruising line, were now parted, and he breathed deeply through them.

And, Merlin, the skin there was so heated. Harry did it again, and again, seeking the warmth and closeness of these once-forbidden places. It was not far, just an inch below where the trousers began, at his hip. And Malfoy did not yank away in terror, just breathed more deeply, swallowed more often.

What Harry did next, he did not even stop to run by himself first. He simply did it, and learned what was happening at the same time as Malfoy.

His fingers gathered the hem of Malfoy’s shirt and slid it up.

Malfoy let out a sound in the back of his throat, but then it cut off. He did not resist as Harry raised the shirt over his head; instead, he moved his arms along to ease the fabric’s way. His face was still twisted in misery, but the unblinking eyes he trained on Harry were cloudy not with pain, but now with wariness.

Harry just dropped the shirt to the floor—privately smiling at Malfoy’s endearing grumble about untidiness—and lost himself in staring at what he had revealed.

Oh, fuck.

Something happened in Harry’s stomach. It was sharp, and it seared like fire. It stung him over and over the more he stared at Malfoy’s bare torso. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on skating his fingers across the warm, smooth skin. This proved, however, to be a more-than-slightly counterproductive distraction. Saliva gathered in his mouth, and he tried not to be obvious in how many times he felt the need to swallow. Merlin… this was very nearly too much for him.

He lost track of time, only paying attention to the changes in Malfoy’s breathing, to the trail of goosebumps he could draw up where he touched. He tried not to obsess over the shape of those shoulders, over the pale expanses of skin covered in a red blush. And certainly not over the tight nipples, which his hands ached to touch, which his tongue ached to…

Heart hammering, Harry tore his hands away, overwhelmed. He had to—he had to…

He was burning up. He yanked off his shirt, desperate for cool air. He barely even noticed the squeak Malfoy made in response.

Harry threw himself back into touching Malfoy without another moment’s hesitation. He couldn’t bear to stand there, letting the air grow thicker with concepts he couldn’t confront.

Malfoy was staring at him. So, Harry cupped his hand behind Malfoy’s head and guided it down onto his bare shoulder, until his nose pressed against the dip in Harry’s neck.

If Malfoy was upset about Harry’s sweat getting on his cheek, he didn’t voice it, much to Harry’s relief. The silence in the room was a powerful force, and whatever was happening right now, the silence felt necessary to maintain it.

Luckily, it seemed they both felt the same way in this regard. No words were exchanged from then on. The only noises were their breaths, gradually slowing down again.

Harry kept his hand curled around the back of Malfoy’s head, fingers carding through the blond strands. His other hand explored the planes of Malfoy’s sides, his back. They sometimes dipped beneath the waistband of his trousers to feel the change in texture, but… that was neither here nor there.

Malfoy’s fingers slid over Harry’s bare torso, too, summoning goosebumps across the sensitive skin. Harry wasn’t used to being touched there—wasn’t sure he ever even had been. He couldn’t help but shiver.

Malfoy’s breath was a constant presence against Harry’s neck. Harry focused on the feeling of that breath in order to ground himself, so he wouldn’t focus hard enough on Malfoy’s fingers to lose his mind.

Harry had no idea how long it took, but his own eyelids began to droop. Malfoy, in turn, seemed to grow heavier against him, and both of their motions slowed as lethargy creeped over them.

Harry led them both into bed, and under the covers. Their hands never left each other.

Malfoy wasn’t crying, Harry reminded himself when his mind threatened to race. Malfoy looked so peaceful, in fact. Therefore, there was nothing wrong with this. Nothing at all.

He collapsed on top of Malfoy, casting _Nox_ with his last remaining second of consciousness. And then at last, hearts beating against each other in tandem, they both fell into a deep sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Harry**

_Too good_ , were the first two words that drifted into Harry’s mind when he woke the next morning. As he floated into consciousness before his Alarm Spell was set to go off, those words echoed around his head, and after a few dazed moments, he determined what exactly was “too good” after all.

His and Malfoy’s clothed erections were flush against each other, and Harry was grinding into him. Merlin _FUCKING DAMMIT_.

He legitimately almost screamed into the pillow beside Malfoy’s neck. Why was this his life? Why was his subconscious determined to torture him?

He forced his movements to still. Fuck, he could feel the exact shape of Malfoy’s cock against his. It was right there, and it felt _brilliant_ , and Harry wondered for a split second what would happen if he let himself stay there and just pretend he was still asleep.

Fuck, but of course he couldn't do that, could he?

“ _No_ ,” he growled at himself aloud (and then winced at having made a sound so close to Malfoy’s ear). He sat up with an indignant huff and crawled out of bed. He would stand next to the bed, and simply glare at his erection until it got some sense and calmed the hell down.

He did so, which proved relatively effective at both calming his erection and filling him with an appropriate amount of frustration. But, it took slightly longer than necessary, because he couldn’t stop staring at Malfoy lying there pliant and relaxed on the bed in front of him.

How the Slytherin thought he had the right to look so delectable while asleep was honestly one of the biggest injustices of the modern world.

Wait, fuck _,_ Harry had really just thought the word “delectable”, hadn’t he? Merlin on a stick, what was wrong with him...

Malfoy shifted and grumbled—causing the blankets to do very unfair things to Harry’s wandering eyes, bloody hell—and then twitched awake.

“Huh?” he yelped with a start. Harry’s eyes shot up just in time to see Malfoy’s face fill with terror before Harry surged forward to assure the blond of his presence.

Except.

Well.

In the process.

Harry’s face got very close and Malfoy’s face turned toward him and also Harry was very worried and very desperate and he.

He kissed him.

Several firecrackers exploded in his lips and head as this occurred. His lips were against Malfoy’s lips why were they doing that what was going on oh no oh no oh no.

Whatever amount Malfoy had been about to scream or cry before seeing Harry, however, at least had disappeared. At least there was that upside.

Harry pulled away, having exactly no idea what the fuck to do anymore. Malfoy was staring at him, completely frozen, lips still parted. Lips that Harry had kissed, with his lips. Oh no no no no no. They stared at each other in silence.

Finally, Harry said an articulate, “Erm.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything. No muscle moved.

“So, erm,” Harry said again, when it proved the world would probably stay halted like this for an absolute infinity otherwise. “That was a surprisingly effective tactic.” He cringed.

Malfoy continued to gape at him. He blinked once. “ _What_?”

“I, er, you know.” Harry wanted to die. He was very, very dizzy. “K-kissing you. It worked.”

Harry wondered if Malfoy might murder him. He doubted he’d fight back at all if it happened. Malfoy opened his mouth, as though about to speak, but then did not speak at all. 

“I’ll, er, keep it in mind,” Harry added, absolutely horrifically. _Dear Merlin, what the fuck._ His throat threatened to close up on him.

To save both of them from himself, he elected to just fucking leave. Why not? Also, maybe he’d jump into the Black Lake later, if he felt like it.

He grabbed his wand and power walked to safety.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Potter was sitting at the Gryffindor table having lunch with his friends.

Nothing was new about this. But Draco shifted uncomfortably all the same, watching him across the way and feeling feelings.

Potter had kissed him this morning. The thought seemed to break Draco’s brain all over again every time he remembered it. It seemed too impossible to be real. And more than that, even—it seemed like the very fact that such a thing had occurred meant that the world couldn’t possibly be real. How could… how could it be that Draco had actually felt Potter’s lips pressed against his…? Like…?

He fought to regain control over his stomach, which appeared now to be doing rather rudely ostentatious somersaults within his torso.

He knew Potter had only done it because he feared Draco might have another panic attack if he did not take drastic action. Draco’s anxiety was so frequent and so intense that Potter clearly thought he had to get creative.

And, Salazar, how terrible was that? Draco felt quite guilty and ashamed about this, of course he did. But he also couldn’t help but wonder just how much he hated this particular side effect. If his pathetic episodes meant Potter might kiss him as a remedy, well…

Circe, where the hell had that thought come from?

“Honey, you’ve barely touched your food,” said Pansy to his left, pulling his focus again.

“Yes, Mum,” he said in a sing-song grumble. He forced himself to turn his head away from Potter and back to his own table. Part of him was grateful for Pansy rescuing him from his reverie. Other parts of him were various shades of frustrated or embarrassed or downright nervous that she may have caught him in the act.

“Knut for your thoughts?”

“What? Oh, no. Nothing.” He set to work cutting his food up with much more precision than usual, hoping that by looking so engrossed he wouldn’t be expected to answer any more questions.

She scoffed, unimpressed. “Obviously you’re thinking about Potter, so don’t even pretend. I just meant I’d appreciate if you expounded a bit on _what_ you were thinking about concerning everyone’s favourite Gryffindor.”

“No.” It came out more snappishly than intended. He backtracked. “I just… you know I don’t want to talk about it, Pans.”

“Yes, I know.” She sighed, and laid a hand on top of his where he was crushing his fork in a bit of a death grip. “But please, don’t leave me in the dark. I care about you. Just because you’re spending so much time with Potter now doesn’t mean you’re not still my best friend.”

“I know that. And you’re mine, always. I assure you, the way I feel about him is nothing like the way I feel about you.”

“Good.” She smiled and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. But although she made a valiant effort to be subtle, Draco didn’t miss the upward tilt of her eyebrows. “So, what is the way you feel about him, then?”

“Oh no. Absolutely not.” He shut his brain off before he could so much as contemplate how he’d answer that question. “Besides, we’re literally in the Great Hall, for Salazar’s sake. How could you ask me this kind of thing here?”

She rolled her eyes, like she saw right through his weak attempt at deflection. “Everyone here is distracted by their own conversations, and it's so loud our words get lost anyway. Come on, Draco. You're not getting out of this that easily.”

Shit, Pansy was too smart for her own good. Draco huffed and took a spiteful bite of his food. “Even still. There’s nothing I want to talk about. Here or anywhere.”

She seemed to deflate a little. Draco bit back a sudden wave of guilt and held his ground. “You sure?” she asked.

“Yes. Really.”

She nodded, letting out a disappointed exhale. “Okay. You can go back to staring at him in silence now.”

His relief was so instant that he got halfway to turning back toward Potter, before he realised this might not, in fact, be the wisest reaction to her words. He drew himself up and scoffed offendedly instead. “I was not staring at him.”

“Oh, hush. Of all the hills to die on, Draco, that is not the one.”

He glared, hating how much she was right.

“Whatever. I was merely looking at him. I’m allowed to look at whomever I please.”

“You sure are,” she humoured, leaning back in her seat with the air of an exasperated sibling. “I’d just love to know what you’re thinking about while you sit there watching him. I mean, is his messy hair really all that interesting?”

 _Yes_ , Draco’s mind replied instantly. He ignored the thought and merely shrugged at her. “I don’t know, Pansy. I hardly realise I’m doing it most of the time.” Even this admission flooded him with embarrassment. He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths.

“Right, that makes sense. That’s probably how he feels all the times he’s staring at you.”

“He stares at me?” Draco gasped too quickly, too excitedly. Pansy snorted.

“Yes, of course. All the time.”

He gave up his endeavour of trying to seem cool and unaffected. “When? How often? What does it look like?”

Although her eyes were highly amused, her expression was kind. “All the time, Draco. I’m sure you’ll catch him doing it; I’m surprised you haven’t already. You know, it’s like how he was in sixth year. Except… more endearing.”

Draco didn’t know what to make of that. He was blushing, though, so he figured Pansy had gotten whatever she’d wanted out of the conversation. “Okay. Thanks for indulging me.”

“Always. You know that, don’t you?”

He sighed. Nodded. “And I’d do the same for you,” he promised.

“Really? You’d tell me about something I want to understand? Because so far you’re doing everything in your power to avoid it.”

Dammit. “Dammit. Why can’t I just give you an empty promise without you calling me out on it?”

She let out an involuntary giggle, and suddenly they were both laughing.

It had been a while since he’d laughed like this. And fuck if it didn’t feel good. Plus, all right, fine. He did sort of deserve to be called out. He could stand to be a bit more forthcoming and fair to his thoughtful, caring, more-patient-than-he-perhaps-deserved best friend.

Something about this, of the joy of her closeness and the relief of smiling with her, changed his mind.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,” he conceded finally. Of course he couldn’t tell her all of it, but he could spare an update or two.

He swallowed. He focused on her smile and hopeful eyes to ground him. “The truth is, I explained everything to Potter. About… what things have been like for me, and all that.” He forced himself to breathe slowly past the lump that had formed in his chest. “We talked things over for a while. And he was surprisingly… good to talk to.”

“Will wonders never cease!” She grinned at him. But her eyes betrayed how amazed she was by his revelation.

“And then I talked to Pomfrey yesterday, and told her. She’s going to refer me to a mind healer.”

Pansy gasped. Then she threw her arms around his shoulders, with such force that he let out a yelp and scrambled to push his plate farther away before food flew everywhere. “Oh, Draco, I am so proud of you! I know that must have been so difficult.”

“It was,” he admitted, rubbing her on the back before she pulled away again. “I got through it, though. It was really stressful… but Potter, you know. Helped.” He swallowed again, trying not to let his voice crack on the final word, imagining what exactly Potter had done to help.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said after a few moments, seeming gobsmacked. “Who’d ever have thought Potter was this much of a miracle worker after all? He should start charging for his services.”

Draco laughed and reached for his plate again. “I can see the headlines now: _Boy Who Lived, Moonlights as a Prostitute._ ”

He made it all the way to lifting his fork to his mouth before his words sank in for him fully.

“Prostitute?” Pansy echoed.

He cringed. “What? No. Not like that.”

“What exactly is going on between you two?”

“Literally nothing! You’re being ridiculous.”

“Draco Malfoy, you forfeit the right to claim such a thing to me while you’re blushing that much.”

“Oh, for—stop,” he whined, dropping his fork and putting his face in his hands. “I swear, it’s not like that. The arrangement is literally for sleep and nothing else.”

“Really?”

“ _Really_. Now _please_ let’s change the subject.”

He could practically hear her narrow her eyes. “Fine.”

Although they were both still slightly on edge, they succeeded in changing the subject. They went on with their meal as though nothing had happened.

… Except for when Pansy couldn’t seem to help herself, and muttered in his ear when he had a mouth full of food, “ _Boy Who Loves Treacle Tart, Now a Common Tart_ ,” just to laugh at him while he choked.


	15. Chapter 15

**Draco**

Sunlight gently woke Draco as it filled the room with a soft yellow glow. Draco felt warm and comfortable, as Potter’s arms wrapped snugly around him from behind. The other boy’s chest was pressed against Draco’s back, and his nose puffed lightly against Draco’s neck.

As the morning stretched before him, Draco lay there and soaked up the feeling of Potter’s touch. Not for the first time, Draco reveled in how lovely it was to wake up this way. Potter’s arms encircled him like a shroud, and no embrace had ever felt more pleasant.

Call Draco more mature about the situation, call him a seasoned pro at this arrangement, call him a master at ignoring his feelings. But no matter what one might decide to dub him, he was rapidly getting used to how good it felt to snuggle with Potter. And however distressed he had used to feel about such a thought, it had now all but totally dissipated.

They had not mentioned the Kissing Incident since it had occurred. And this was just as well, because Draco figured they both might die in the process if they tried to acknowledge it. So far, they’d been getting by since, thanks to pretending that it had never happened at all.

With how well they’d been managing it, Draco was almost totally convinced that the kiss was actually some strange fever dream anyway. It was also largely thanks to this fact that Draco was able to experience the relatively uncomplicated calm he was currently achieving.

So, all was going just fine. And Draco could enjoy the situation for what it was, without strange and painful rumination on concepts like kissing Potter attempting to disturb his fragile peace.

And then it came back full force when he began to pull away in order to get up, and Potter’s sleeping form decided to respond by pulling him in tighter and muttering, “No, stay, c’meere.”

Draco froze.

Potter’s breath was closer against his neck now, and his knees were tucked behind Draco’s. Draco suddenly had no idea what to do with his respiration.

On one hand, logically, he knew that Potter was still asleep, and that one could not hold something a person did while sleeping against them. But, on the other hand…

After a few moments, Draco tried to extricate himself anew, more carefully this time. Potter whined petulantly, squeezing him tight again. “Nnnnngh. Stop. Gimme.”

 _Give you what?_ , his mind reeled unhelpfully.

“Potter,” he said, going for firm but voice sounding way too high-pitched.

Potter’s hand on top of Draco’s torso began to pet over him absently, in soft circular motions. Draco had to fight to keep his eyes from drifting shut at the sensation. “Potter,” he said again, weakly. “It’s. It’s morning.”

“Shhh, baby.”

“ _Potter!_ ” he all but shrieked.

Draco’s heart was in his throat. He was going to die of palpitations. Fuck, he wouldn’t be able to get the sound of Potter saying that out of his head for weeks—maybe ever.

“Hm?” Potter’s arms loosened around him. He seemed to be waking now. For real, this time. “What time is it?”

“Er… half seven?”

“Damn.” He sat up and Draco looked up to watch him rub at his eyes. “Quidditch took so much out of me yesterday. I was out like a light. How did you sleep?”

Draco was at a loss, mouth cottony and brain all jumbled static. Merlin, Potter was truly just making idle conversation. Totally oblivious, totally unaware of what he’d been saying mere moments before.

Draco had no idea how the universe could demand him to keep up with Potter’s unfair expectations right now.

“F-fine,” he managed to reply. It was a true statement, at any rate. Well, of course, that was until this morning’s alarming wakeup process. Draco’s pulse was literally still racing.

“You sure? You seem a bit uneasy.”

“I promise.” He stood up and stretched to prove he was perfectly awake and normal. Potter watched him, eyes lingering on him and seeming sufficiently attentive to this proof.

“Okay,” Potter said. “Well, I think that might be my favourite position so far. It was good for you, too, right?”

Draco willed his cheeks not to heat too much at the phrasing. He knew Potter was talking about the sleep position—which Draco had to agree was impressively comfortable—but he could not stop his brain from drawing all kinds of parallels between this and… more sexual situations. It was official: Harry Potter was trying to murder him.

But, at least Draco would look dignified while it was happening. “Yeah. I, er. Pretty decent. Nice job with that one.”

Potter stood up with a casual, “I aim to please.” The Gryffindor truly seemed unaware of how he was affecting him, Draco concluded in disbelief. Damn, well, at least his assessment about Potter’s cluelessness over the years had been one of Draco’s correct ones.

Draco looked over at his timepiece to see how long he had before class. Suddenly, he remembered his plans for that night. The realisation hit him like a punch in the gut. “I have another appointment today,” he said.

He dreaded thinking about it, but today he would meet the mind healer Madam Pomfrey had contacted for him. And in all likelihood it would, to no small degree, affect the kind of state he was in when Potter saw him next.

Potter looked at him with kind eyes. “Good luck. I know you’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” Draco muttered, feeling distinctly like he did not _got this_.

“Hey.” Potter stepped around the bed to join Draco on the side where he stood. He put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise. All right?”

Draco’s fingers clenched and unclenched. Potter was too much. And Draco had the sudden urge to do something mad… like…

“I’ll see you tonight,” he grumbled, grabbing his toiletry bag and exiting the room. He was getting hard and he wanted to deal with it in peace. Close his eyes and sort himself out efficiently, all the while trying to convince himself the only thing he fantasised about was a faceless, featureless silhouette, and not someone with dark messy hair and a low voice whispering “ _baby_ ” over and over again in his ear.

* * * * *

True to his prediction, Draco returned to his room that night shaking.

The session had gone quite well, all in all. “Well”, that was, depending on who was evaluating. From the mind healer’s point of view, for example, the session had probably proven incredibly productive. But, from Draco’s, it had reduced him to a total wreck.

The healer had already learned a bit about him from Madam Pomfrey, but she’d asked Draco to share as much as he could in his own words. Now that he’d discussed it multiple times before, it was slightly easier to get up the strength to speak to her about it. But that didn’t make it any less horrible to do.

He didn’t know how any of this could possibly help him. So far, it seemed like talking about his “trauma”, as she called it, put him in the absolute worst condition. His mental state seemed the most ideal when he was shoving down all of his memories and trying to function in spite of his history.

Of course, she’d had an answer for all of his criticisms. She’d claimed that such “denial” was merely a shallow guise of stability, and that it was neither sustainable nor safe. He would never be able to move on and experience actual health, she’d argued, unless he put himself through the ordeal of facing his problems head on.

“And your coping mechanisms,” she’d added, “only treat the symptoms of the problems, not the problems themselves. You need to work at the underlying issue to heal. Otherwise, you’ll be reliant on these crutches your whole life.”

He’d hated that this sort of sounded legitimate. He’d buried his face in a tissue, partially to aid his ceaseless tears and partially just to stop having to look at her anymore.

How easy for her to insult his coping mechanisms. She had no idea what it was like for him. And his coping mechanisms actually _worked_ , despite her ignorant opinion. They were helping him survive like nothing else. Without his constant denial, and his help from Potter, he would probably have dropped dead by now.

For that matter, he wondered Pomfrey had gone and told her anything about his arrangement with Potter. While it might make sense for the nurse to have done so, he hoped she hadn’t. But he was not about to ask and open that can of worms. As it was, they hadn’t even discussed his insomnia in this session at all. And he wasn’t about to bring that up until absolutely necessary.

With his luck, the mind healer would probably bother him about that excruciating topic at their next meeting, bugger it all.

When Draco got back to his room, trembling like a leaf and near suffocating on tears, Potter was already there. He was there, waiting on Draco’s bed, because he was always there when Draco needed him. It was one of the things—one of the few, and precious things—that Draco could now reliably count on.

It took all his willpower not to totally fling himself into the other boy’s arms. He forced himself to walk slowly instead, and to only minorly fling himself.

“Oh, er, hello—” Potter began, startled with Draco’s sudden entrance and the evident intensity of his emotions. But he accommodated it quickly, sliding sideways on the bed to give Draco more room.

Draco sat down beside Potter and sagged against him. Potter didn’t hesitate, wrapping one arm behind Draco like he’d planned this position all along. Draco just accepted it, knowing it was ridiculous, and pitiful, but too exhausted to do anything else but cry and let Potter work his magic.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Potter murmured in his ear, stroking his back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Draco shook his head, throat feeling tight. He’d done enough talking tonight. And he was choking back so many tears, he could barely so much as breathe.

“Okay. Is there anything else I can do?”

Draco paused, trying to take in Potter’s scent and let it calm him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t say a word. He resolved that he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Except, then his mouth responded. He rasped out, “Can you kiss me again?”

Potter stiffened under him. Draco stiffened, too, at his own appalling words. Circe, what a fucking idiotic thing to say. He was one thin thread away from outright sobbing.

“It… it worked before,” he added, pathetically.

This was true. It had worked. And yet, his heart ached for it for more than just for that simple reason. And he knew that any moment now Potter would burst out laughing at him and shove him off for good.

But then, Potter said primly, “Of course.”

Draco’s heart seized. He tracked Potter’s motions as the Gryffindor slowly pulled back, and inclined his head to tilt his mouth beneath Draco’s nose.

Potter was such a—such an altruistic—

His lips took Draco’s breath away. He had none left in order to cry.

Kissing. Really kissing. Draco was engulfed by it. He could no longer think of anything in the outside world. The kiss ignited his every nerve ending, stealing every stimulus that wasn’t _Harry Harry Harry._

He tilted his head up higher, lips moving faster, trying to swallow the other boy as quickly as the other boy was swallowing him.

Hands. Hands in hair. Potter’s hair was so soft. After all these years swearing otherwise, Draco abruptly changed his mind: Potter’s hair should _never_ lie flat. Draco should always be mussing it. He should always be touching it. He should always be kissing—

Potter’s squeak broke Draco out of his haze enough to notice that he’d straddled Potter’s lap.

Draco separated their mouths. His lips were so wet. There was perhaps a string of saliva connecting his to Potter’s.

“Er. Sorry,” Draco mumbled, nerves swooping in again. He wiped stupidly at his mouth. “I got… carried away…”

“D-distraction is good,” Potter said, nodding fairly shakily. He sounded out of breath. “It, er. Seems like this was productive.”

“Yes. Productive.” Draco leaned backward, trying to gulp in fresh air that hadn’t been heated so drastically by their bodies in this little bubble. But also not fully ready to leave Potter’s lap yet, if Potter wasn’t going to comment on it. “We can safely add that to our list of go-to’s.”

Merlin, what the hell was he saying? Draco wanted to punch himself in the face.

But Potter just nodded again. “Yes. Good idea. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Fuck. Draco was going to spontaneously combust.

And… _now_ was definitely a good time to stop their groins from making such conspicuous contact, he determined rather urgently.

He quickly climbed off of Potter. The two of them sat there in excruciating silence.

Finally, Potter said, staring at the wall instead of making eye contact, “So. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Draco answered woodenly. He didn’t say the truth, which was, _still overwhelmed like before, but now for an entirely different reason._

“Good. Good.” More silence. It seemed like _good_ was perhaps the only word left in Potter’s vocabulary. Then, finally, he asked, “Tired?”

No. Definitely not. Wired, amped up, extremely turned on, maybe. But certainly not tired. “Absolutely,” Draco replied.

“Good.”

Slowly, awkwardly, the two of them crawled under the covers. Potter assumed the position of curling around Draco again from behind, for which Draco was immensely grateful for multiple reasons.

For one thing, the comforting embrace still meant the world to him.

For another, it was a huge relief not to have to worry about Potter feeling Draco’s rock-hard erection pressing up against him. _Salazar_. Merlin on a stick. This would be a difficult night in-fucking-deed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Draco**

Draco was—understandably—extremely distracted all the next day. He felt jittery in a way he hadn’t since he’d stopped staying awake for days on end.

He decided that he couldn’t bear spending another evening with Potter right now. Obviously he needed the other boy in order to sleep, but existing in each other’s wakeful presences before bed was too much for Draco to even think about. If he went along with it tonight, who knew what might happen this time? What compromising situations would they get into, or what emotions might they unearth? It was more than highly terrifying. And after the night before, he just couldn’t do it again so soon.

Walking up to Potter in the corridor later that morning proved almost physically painful. (And it was, he had to admit to himself, slightly counterproductive, given that what he wanted most was to avoid close interactions with Potter at all.) But, he’d learned in his time recovering from his past that he couldn’t just seek short-term convenience, and should instead sacrifice it once in a while for long-term gratification. So, he found Potter sitting on a windowsill scrawling last-minute answers to his Herbology homework. Draco fought not to smile at Potter’s endearing clumsiness as he approached.

“Potter,” he said. The other boy looked up, messy hair falling in front of his eyes in a way that solidified Draco’s assurance he could not handle another evening with him. “I’m going to be back late tonight. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll join you eventually.”

Potter’s eyebrows knit together. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course. I’m just spending some time with Pansy, is all. I’ll come back to the room later. I promise.”

“But…” Potter looked out at the clock tower and seemed distressed by the hour it displayed. This worked in Draco’s favour, as Potter clearly didn’t have the time before class to debate this issue as much as he otherwise might. “What time will you be back? I can wait however long…”

“No, no,” Draco insisted. He tried not to dwell on how Potter seemed like he was fighting to inconvenience himself, in order to spend more time with Draco. That just simply wasn’t happening. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. And it’s a school night. There’s no reason you should lose sleep on account of my evening plans.”

Potter still seemed displeased, but he didn’t fight back any more. “Okay. I’ll, er, see you when I wake up in the morning, I suppose.”

“Right.” Draco ignored the rising heat he felt on his cheeks. He glanced at what Potter was writing. “Also, the answer to number seven is moonflower, not lobelia.”

“What?” Potter looked back down at his parchment. “Oh. Thanks.” He set his quill to amending the error. His lips drew up into a relieved smile that Draco didn’t know how to look at while breathing.

To save himself from the ache it gave his chest, he turned without another word and beat a hasty retreat.

* * * * *

“You are staring at me,” said Theo nonchalantly that afternoon, not looking up from his book.

Draco shot his eyes back downward again, embarrassed.

He and Theo had a few hours break before their final classes of the day, and they usually spent the time together, doing work side-by-side. Today, however, Draco found it distinctly impossible to focus on any schoolwork. Instead, he was dedicating this time to studying what the hell it meant to sit next to another male specimen and contemplate him.

He just hadn’t bothered to think it through beforehand at all.

“No, don’t stop on my account.” Theo turned the page of his book boredly, still not looking up. “Although, I would appreciate an explanation, since I have a quickly mounting suspicion that you’ve got an entertaining one.”

Draco bit back the blush that welled inside him.

He had been, in point of fact, absolutely staring at Theo. And he continued again, unable to resist now that he had the go-ahead.

Draco examined him. His dark hair, his jawline, his eyelashes, his shoulders.

This was a boy—and a boy Draco knew quite well. Did he want to kiss this boy? Was he “attracted” to this boy? What made up the concept of “attracted”? Draco knew that homosexuals were _attracted_ to members of the same sex, but what did that mean about Draco? Perhaps he was just confused, would just lust after the body of any person closest to him.

But, he’d never felt the way about Pansy that he did about Potter. Nowhere near. And the way he felt about Potter… it sent a spike of adrenaline through Draco just to think about him. He’d never felt that way about _anyone_.

He imagined kissing Theo. It wasn’t the most unwelcome thought, if he ended up pressed to perform the act. So, perhaps that in itself meant something. But it wasn’t… he couldn’t…

“Draco, it gets to be a tad creepy if you keep doing that and don’t respond on top of it.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Draco muttered, blinking for the first time in what suddenly felt like ages. “I was just, er. Thinking.”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. Theo still hadn’t looked up from his book. Draco was beginning to think that this was purposeful on Theo's part, as a form of kindness.

“Just wondering. About things.”

“Things concerning my face?” Draco didn’t miss the fact that Theo graciously said _face_ as though that had been the only thing Draco was staring at.

“No, not you specifically. Just any boy’s. Er. Face.” An all-consuming cringe overwhelmed him. _Fuck_ , how could he really be saying this out loud?

“Oh.” Theo paused, flicking his eyes in such a way that Draco knew meant he was examining Draco’s expression in his peripheral vision. “Okay.”

“Don’t,” Draco stuttered before he knew he was speaking again. “Don’t think I’m…”

“Shhh. There’s nothing wrong. You can look at whatever you want for as long as you want. I’m just here reading.”

Draco swallowed. He was intensely grateful to Theo, the forever quiet and introverted boy, who now sensed what Draco couldn’t say and knew just what he needed.

A long silence reigned.

Draco's mind drifted to his curiosity again, and to ways he might try to satisfy it. Finally, Draco asked, “Would you?”

Theo paused, connecting the dots to ascertain what Draco refused to utter aloud.

“Me? No.” He turned a page again, and grew a soft, comforting smile that Draco knew was for him, even though Theo still did not look up at him. “But that’s not what you want anyway.”

“Why not?” Draco didn’t know why he was being petulant about it, especially since Theo was right. But, perhaps Draco just wanted to be told what he wanted. Like he’d been used to his whole life.

“You’re staring at me because you’re _trying_. If it’s that difficult to make yourself want something, you probably don’t want it. At least, not the way you think you should.”

“Oh, hush. That’s not true.” Draco crossed his legs and looked away. This conversation was not real, was absolutely not real at all.

“Don’t judge yourself. Just let yourself think about what it’s _easy_ for you to want. And then work from there.”

Draco hated it. He hated this situation. He hated that Theo said this to him, like he knew what Draco was thinking. Like this was all perfectly effortless to understand and perfectly effortless for someone to put to action. And he hated that when Theo said this, Draco’s mind immediately flicked back to Potter. And his pulse jumped again, just at the mental image of that messy hair and green eyes.

He thought about going with Theo into one of their rooms and kissing him, just to see how it felt. “What if I just want to test it out?” he asked bluntly.

“Draco. You don’t need to do that.”

“Why _not_?” His voice rose. In volume and embarrassingly in pitch. He wanted to scream, furious that everyone seemed to know everything better than him. And how all those things they knew were things that he had an _express_ right to know more about than any of them did.

“You already have everything you need.”

“No I—”

“Just do what feels natural and right. That’s all you have to do. It’ll fall into place, and you’ll be glad for it.”

“Bullshit.” Draco stood up. Suddenly, he wanted to hex something. “That is absolute bullshit. Why don’t you go take up with Trelawney so you can both spew pseudo-profound aphorisms all day long?”

Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. Draco hated him.

He stormed out, despising the world. And wishing he could kiss some stupid boy (who wasn’t _the_ stupid boy) to see if he really liked kissing stupid boys at all.

But whatever. He didn’t like stupid boys, and he _definitely_ didn’t like Potter. The amount Draco’s heart ached even thinking those words meant absolutely nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Floriography sources state that the meaning of moonflower is “dreaming of love”, while lobelia symbolizes “malevolence”. So, when Draco corrects Harry’s Herbology work, I gave it hidden meaning. Draco's correction translates to saying that he dreams of love, and does not want to hurt Harry.


	17. Chapter 17

**Draco**

He and Pansy did homework together that evening in her room. They worked for a few hours, alternating between helpful conversation (plus a decent number of distracting tangents) and studious silence. But when they finished, it was still early enough that Potter might not have gone to sleep yet, and Draco squirmed at the thought of returning to his room to find the other boy awake. He simply couldn’t bear to face him just yet.

So, he asked Pansy what was going on in her life, and they talked about everything and nothing for a few hours more.

Draco was genuinely grateful—and he could tell that she was, too—to have some laid-back time to bond together again, talking about something other than him for a change. For the past few months, their relationship had been far too one-sided. She’d been his worrying mother, while he’d been her petulant son. And that just wasn’t fair.

Now, it felt like they were making up for all that imbalance. She chatted with him about everything in her life, big and small—her classes, her family, her future aspirations both short- and long-term. For once, she didn’t press him for information about himself. They just enjoyed the comfort of each other’s company, and it felt like the good old days again. Back before the war, back before anything. Back when he’d lie down with his head in her lap as she played with his hair and hummed songs under her breath.

Back when things were easy, and he’d thought uncomplicatedly that they’d probably get married one day. Just because… why not? He had always liked Pansy, always loved her like family. And that was the highest form of love, he’d been certain. His parents would do anything for each other, and do even more of anything for him, their treasured only child. For his part, Draco had known he’d never feel anything greater than the affection he felt for his family.

Yes, his heart had never beat at an irregular pace for Pansy, but that was no matter. Such things were by no means necessary for a loving relationship; besides, he’d been fairly certain he wasn’t even capable of those sorts of feelings, anyway.

The only time his heart had ever thumped at an irregular pace, with a different sort of interest, was when he’d heard those fanciful stories of the amazing boy, just Draco’s age, who had defeated the Dark Lord in an explosion of power and magic. Draco would beg for the tale _again, again,_ throughout his childhood. And he’d always wonder what that famous, special Harry Potter was up to right then. And he’d pine to meet him, closing his eyes at night and hoping, wishing, that maybe they’d even get to be friends one day.

Until, of course, he’d actually met Potter, and promptly learned that reality was nothing like dreams. And he’d latched onto disdain with every shred of his being, despising Potter, and despising everything that the bitter disappointment stood for.

But through all of it, he’d still had Pansy. And he’d figured with his young mind that, when he ended up marrying someone, it couldn’t get much better than the girl he already loved like family.

Draco pulled himself out of his reverie and shook his head to clear it, refocusing doubly on Pansy’s current description of her career goals. She was so animated when she spoke. So many people in the world hated her after the war, but Draco knew she’d convert her passion into proving every one of them wrong one way or another. She was too dedicated not to. Whenever she saw something wrong around her, she always threw herself headfirst into trying to change it (even when Draco sometimes found himself exasperated by her methods).

Things were a lot more complicated now than he’d appreciated when he was younger, he knew. For one thing, he had since learned that there were many ways to love someone powerfully, other than like family. And the way he felt about Pansy wasn’t like _that_ at all. And if he thought about marriage now, his head hurt too much with all the Forbidden Thoughts he kept needing to dodge.

Eventually, even Pansy’s eyes began to droop, and she suggested turning in for the night. “You should get to bed, too, Mister,” she said through a yawn. “Don’t let me spoil the best sleep schedule you’ve had in years.”

Lethargy tugged at him, as well. And it was sufficiently late enough for Potter to be asleep, he concluded with confidence.

He stood up and stretched, already imagining the warmth of his bed—and unable to escape envisioning the warmth of Potter’s arms, too. He bade his friend good night and made the trek back to his room.

* * * * *

He didn’t fully process the sounds until he’d already shut his door behind him and soaked his room in closed-in silence. Then, the noises coming from the bed were impossible to mistake.

He first noticed it as a mumble. And a shuffling, as the dark-haired figure under the blankets tossed back and forth. Then what sounded almost like—no, sounded definitely like—a pained whimper. And more twitches.

Draco lit the end of his wand. As it illuminated the bed in front of him, the sound of shuffling revealed its cause.

Potter lay there, a tangled mess beneath the sheets. He let out intermittent cries of distress, and he was outright thrashing on the mattress.

Draco rushed to the bedside, and immediately verified the next piece in the puzzle: Potter was still fast asleep.

He was having a nightmare.

Draco sat down on the bed, wincing at how Potter’s face was pinched up in pain. He wanted to wake him immediately, to grab him and shake him and make it all stop. But he knew enough to remember how unwise and potentially damaging it could be to wake someone in the middle of a nightmare.

Potter thrashed again, kicking his leg out and letting out a choked whimper that Draco would never have imagined the Gryffindor making. It was awful to behold. He hated seeing this of Harry (no, of _Potter_ , he reminded himself as his brain threatened to stray; he had to be Potter, even when he was like this).

Potter then let out such a wretched, shuddering breath that Draco fought not to tear his hair in anguish. Fuck, Draco couldn’t let this happen. He especially couldn’t let this happen to _him_.

He cycled through his mind for everything he knew that might be of use to him. If he touched Potter, it might make his dream more stressful. And it might result in him lashing out and hurting Draco. Hell, it might even result in an outburst of accidental magic. Such was a rare consequence of these kinds of situations, but Draco wouldn’t put it past Potter of all people.

He turned on the lights in the room. Despite his hopes, this did not rouse Potter. Draco tried to tug the blankets away from the sleeping form, to stop how Potter was tangling it ever more dangerously around himself. When it proved too difficult to move them, he Vanished them with his wand. He’d worry about Conjuring a new set later.

The fabric’s removal seemed to register with Potter, on some unconscious level, because he reacted by kicking again. Or, well, maybe he was just kicking because that was what he wanted to do.

“Potter,” Draco said. The other boy panted, seeming on the verge of hyperventilation. “ _Potter_ ,” Draco repeated.

The whines increased in volume. Draco cringed, knowing it was probably due to his own goading.

He threw caution to the wind and reached out, touching Potter’s shoulder. The boy didn’t react, but continued to jerk his head from side to side, as if telling some invisible force in his dream, _no no no no no_.

“Wake up,” he said, nudging the shoulder lightly. “Come on. Wake up.”

Potter jerked, hands coming up to hit the pillow next to his head.

“No! Stop.” Draco cast around for options.

For a moment, he considered the idea of using Legilimency. He could get inside Potter’s head, know what he was dreaming about, and maybe even console him inside the dream itself.

But, no. The unconscious Potter could not, and almost certainly _would_ not if he could, consent to such an invasion of his privacy as that. And while Draco had enough skill in Legilimency to pull it off, he pushed the idea away. He didn’t care how convenient it was; he couldn’t do that to Potter.

He figured what he should probably do, but was dreading it. He knew how absolutely awful the spell was known to feel in situations like this. While it wasn’t a permanent violation like Legilimency would have been, it would still be miserable as hell.

He let go of Potter’s shoulder. This jostled him, and Potter subsequently let out a gasp that was probably better characterised as a strangled wail. Fuck. Draco couldn’t bear another moment of knowing Potter was in pain. He just hoped the other boy would forgive him for his next act when all was said and done.

He aimed his wand at Potter. “ _Rennervate!_ ”

Potter screamed. His eyes snapped open as he choked on the sound. He sat up at once, and whirled around to stare at Draco.

His eyes were wet. Draco realised with a pang that Potter was crying.

“Oh, Harry,” he whispered. “Come here.”

Draco held out his arms. The other boy looked bewildered, but after a moment, he leaned into the embrace nonetheless. He rested his head tentatively against Draco’s shoulder. Draco stroked his back, not discounting how stiff it felt, nor how it shook beneath his hands.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he whispered in his ear. “It was just a dream.”

Harry trembled. He held himself woodenly, not fully sinking into Draco’s arms.

“I’m sorry I woke you like that. I didn’t know what else to do.”

The head on his shoulder nodded slowly. He didn’t say anything.

“How can I help?” Draco asked. He had no idea how Harry had always been so good at comforting him. He felt totally at a loss now that the situation was reversed. “Tell me. Anything.”

The head shook side to side now, refusing him.

“Please, Harry.” Now that he’d started calling him by his first name, it seemed that Draco was unable to stop. “Come on. Let me…”

“I’m fine,” said Harry, voice too shaky to be believed, but making a valiant effort. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Draco fought not to roll his eyes. “What are you talking about? I worry you on a practically nightly basis. You never think I should be sorry.”

He inwardly cringed to say it, secretly always having believed the opposite. But he knew the Saviour wouldn’t actually be able to argue against this point.

“That’s different.” Harry sat back, pulling away from him. Draco hated the loss of contact, wishing he could scoop Harry up again and never let go. But he forced himself to battle the urge.

“How could it possibly be different?” Draco asked.

Harry turned away, evidently trying to be subtle about wiping his eyes. He shrugged.

“You know it isn’t,” Draco went on. “Harry, you’re allowed to be the one getting help now and then.”

“I know that,” he argued, wet voice tinged with defiance. “My friends help me all the time.”

Draco knew he was referring to his classic rant about how he’d only ever defeated his myriad foes due to the aid of Granger, Weasley, and others. But still, Draco couldn’t shake the knot that formed in his stomach. “I know. And aren’t… aren’t we…” He fought his throat not to close up around the sentence. “Friends?”

Harry paused for a moment, then looked back at him, movements stilted as though he’d been caught off guard. “Right. Yes. Of course we are.”

He reached out, and laid a hand on Draco’s knee, which seemed meant to be reassuring. Draco willed his heart not to explode at the contact, or at the words Harry had just spoken. He went on with the topic at hand, trying to push past the part of him that wanted to be sentimental. Instead, he went for strictly business-related. “So. I want to help.”

Harry shook his head again, retracting his touch. “I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

“But you just said—”

“Not with this. I can take care of myself.”

Draco stared at him, frustration mounting. (And feeling irrationally upset as his heart screamed that _he_ wanted to take care of Harry.)

He ran through every possible clue he had, trying to work out why the Gryffindor was being so bloody uncooperative. He landed on one, feeling as victorious as he was incredulous. “Is this because it’s got to do with your emotions?”

Harry shook his head immediately, looking miffed. “No. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“For the love of Circe, stop saying you’re fine! You’re not. I came into this room to find you thrashing about and crying in your sleep. Don’t you dare insist you can do everything on your own.” Draco gave into the urge to touch him now, and put his hand on top of Harry’s where it lay on the bed. “I’m sorry you’ve been made to feel like you have to for so long. But you _don’t_. I’m _here_. And, if it makes you get on with this any quicker, please know that no amount of arguing you do will convince me to leave you alone about it. So please just accept that I’m here to talk to you, and _talk to me_.”

Harry stared down at where they touched. It occurred to Draco that they were almost holding hands. He forced himself to stand his ground despite the way his heart flipped in his chest. They were silent for a while. Then, Harry took a deep breath.

“I had a nightmare,” he muttered. “I get them a lot. It sucks, but so do lots of things. I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to handle it alone,” Draco insisted. He distantly registered that he was leaning rather far into Harry’s personal space, but he didn’t stop. “Do you want to talk about them?”

Harry shrugged. “Not really. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t try diving into my mind to find out yourself.”

Draco’s heart sank. “You really think I’d do that?”

“No, I suppose not.” Harry looked down, worrying his bottom lip in a way that attacked Draco’s stomach viscerally. “It just, would have been so easy. I’ve gotten better enough at Occlumency that you couldn’t try while I’m awake without me noticing. But, I dunno. You’re a good Legilimens, and the opportunity was right there. I’m sure you were tempted.”

“Not really,” Draco said, realising how thoroughly his own assertion was true. “I know most people probably would have jumped at the opportunity to have the mind of the Boy Who Lived ready for their perusal, but I would never do that. I figured… I figured you’d think of better of—”

“I do,” Harry assured him, eyes suddenly piercing into Draco’s. “I do think better of you. I shouldn’t be acting so surprised you didn’t do it. I guess it’s just… nice to hear it confirmed. I really can trust you.”

If Draco kept staring slack-jawed at those green, green eyes, he’d surely drown forever. He forced himself to get back to the main topic. “So, are you ready to talk to me about your dream, then?”

“No,” Harry scoffed, but without heat. “Quite frankly, I can barely even think. Feel too shaky to do anything, let alone dissect my dreams.” He shook his head at the idea, and then stared at the wall, face settling again into an expression of profound unease.

A tiny voice in Draco’s head was getting steadily louder. He tried to shove it away, because he would be mad to acknowledge it. But it kept shouting at him, demanding him to vocalise it. “I—you—” he stuttered, warring with himself.

“What?”

“I can try to help calm you down,” Draco said. His mouth and he were officially enemies.

“…How?”

He tried to fight it. He really, really did.

And yet somehow his mouth broke free of his hold. It managed to defy it all and say, “They way you’ve started helping me when I’m upset.”

Harry blinked, looking confused and at a loss. Draco didn’t say anything else. Then Harry glanced down, and seemed to register just how close Draco was leaning toward him. “You mean… you mean like…?”

“Yes. If you think it might help, that is.” He coughed, despising his own throat for rebelling against sanity. “I can speak from experience, it—it works.”

He was absolutely mortified. But he did not have too long to dwell on it. Because Harry’s eyes were on his lips. And Harry was nodding. And Harry was leaning in.

Their lips met, and Draco’s world came undone.

A swooping sensation filled his head with dizziness. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s back to ground himself. And also maybe just to feel Harry’s body against him.

Harry’s hands were in Draco’s hair. Draco did not waste time burying his own fingers into Harry’s as he clung to him for dear life. They were kissing again, sweet Merlin, they were kissing again.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it since the last time.

Draco was swimming in perfection, everything outside of this room a dizzy swirl of unreality. Then, finally, Harry pulled away. Despite this, Draco watched in amazement as Harry’s eyes stayed closed. He did not seem in any particular rush to open them again.

Draco debated stealing another kiss and restarting things again before Harry could stop him. But instead, he said, “From now on, if either of us feels upset, we should just do this.”

This made Harry open his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Just, er, you know.” Draco smoothed down his own hair to give himself something to do. “If you’re stressed or anything, you can feel free to come over and initiate something.” He stuttered slightly on the delivery, feeling tingly all over. “Or if you notice I’m stressed. Whenever. Just. You have my blanket permission from now on.”

Harry blinked at him. “Thank you,” he said evenly. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Of course,” Draco replied magnanimously. His palms were sweating.

An excruciating moment passed in which Draco feared that Harry would shut down the offer. But then Harry finally added, “And you can always, er. You can always initiate something with me. Go ahead, whenever you want to.”

Draco’s limbs were starting to go numb. He wondered if he might be dreaming or high or both. “All right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Harry nodded. More silence followed.

After a loaded moment, Draco cleared his throat. “So, are you ready to talk about your nightmare now?”

Harry frowned. “Right. That.” He paused, then bit his lip. “In a minute, then yes.”

He dove forward and recaptured Draco’s mouth. Draco consequently lost track of all time and also all breathing.

When he finally pulled away, Draco was barely coherent. “Okay,” Harry concluded. “I’m ready now.”

Draco had no idea how to do anything but nod.

“It doesn’t really matter, of course,” Harry went back to reassuring him, as though their previous conversation had never been interrupted. “Everyone gets bad dreams.”

Draco struggled to regain the thread. He managed, with an eloquent, “Well, _these_ bad dreams are _yours_.”

Harry looked at him. His eyes were so very fucking green.

“They’re about all sorts of things,” he said at last. “In this one, you were there.”

“I—what?”

“Yeah. I was locked in my aunt and uncle’s cupboard. Er, because I always was, growing up. I don’t know if you’ve heard about that before, or...”

”I have,” Draco said. His lungs burned around the words. He wished hadn’t heard about it before, wished he weren’t hearing it now either. He wanted to scream just thinking about it. “Fuck, Harry, I’m so s—”

”I could see through the slats on the door, though. And you were lying on the ground in the next room, and I couldn’t get to you. I was a little kid again, and I didn’t have a wand, and I was just screaming and banging on the door unable to do anything.”

The image was becoming too much. Knowing that so much of it was true, that Harry’s life really had been like that when he was younger, made Draco’s chest constrict to and beyond the point of pain. ”No. Fuck. I can’t... how can you...”

”But I knew you were hurt because of me. You... you were bleeding. Like you were in the bathroom when I cursed you.”

“Oh.” His mind screeched to a halt.

Draco’s hand had fallen back down onto the bed, and Harry suddenly seized it. He twined their fingers together, hard. “I’m so sorry,” Harry said earnestly. “I’ve always been sorry. I didn’t even know what the spell did; I was just so angry. Fuck, what I did to you… it was awful. And this dream was so…”

“It’s okay,” Draco said. “I was going to give you the Cruciatus Curse. I’m glad you hit me first.”

“No.” Harry looked like he might cry again, or punch something. “I should have just disarmed you. I tried to disarm bloody _Voldemort_. I should have disarmed you.”

Draco flinched at the name, and then swallowed. He hadn’t really thought about it, but… yes. Harry had chosen to curse him and not curse the Dark Lord. That hurt a lot to hear the Saviour say out loud. “I deserved it,” Draco muttered, self-loathing creeping up his throat. “You know what I was up to. It’d have been better if you’d just killed me altogeth—”

“Shut up. Don’t you _dare_.”

Harry yanked their clasped hands toward him and pulled Draco against his chest, holding him there with his other free hand wrapped around Draco’s back.

“Never,” Harry demanded viciously into Draco’s hair. “ _Never_.”

Draco’s face was smushed rather unpleasantly against Harry’s shirt. He couldn’t breathe all that well. He stayed there, frozen.

“I’m glad I got the chance to know you,” Harry said more quietly. “I can’t believe how close I came to never doing that. Now I can’t even imagine a life without… er, that is… a life without knowing what you’re really like.”

Draco nodded to the best of his ability while still pressed into Harry’s chest. He couldn’t imagine it either. He didn’t want to imagine it.

“Thank you for letting me know you,” Harry went on. “It’s… really fucking hard to be known.” He let out a laugh. Draco was sure this laugh meant Harry would push his own hair out of his face if he had a free hand. He could picture it so clearly.

“Like the quote,” Draco attempted to offer.

“What?”

Harry let him go so Draco could speak without it sounding incomprehensibly muffled. “Like the… the quote,” he tried again. “‘We have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.’”

A slow smile spread over Harry’s face at this. Draco looked away, remembering too late that the first half of the line read, _If we want the rewards of being loved_ …

Harry did not say anything else for a while. He was silent for so long that Draco had to look back at him again. He now had the most curious expression on his face. Draco dreaded if he’d ask him the full quote—but instead, Harry said, “That sounds like a Muggle quote.”

Draco flushed, and shrugged to hide his embarrassment. He defaulted to his favourite snarky tone. “So? I like to read, Potter. There are only so many works to consume in the wizarding canon before one begins to feel starved for options.”

The curious expression stayed. Draco felt increasingly anxious about it.

Finally, Harry cleared his throat. “I’m feeling better now. Do you want to lie down with me?”

Draco nodded. He Conjured a passable enough blanket and lay down with Harry beneath it, grateful when Harry also took the liberty of turning off the lights again.

“You know,” Draco said, as Harry began to reach for him, “I can hold you instead, if you want.”

Harry paused. When he replied, Draco could hear the smile in his voice. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you. But, I’m all right, actually. I’d rather this.” He cleared his throat. “I like, er, being the one to do it, if that makes sense. It feels good, being in control, and knowing I’m... I dunno. Getting to...” He trailed off, sounding increasingly awkward.

But Draco understood. “Merlin, you bloody hero,” he sneered dramatically, which fulfilled its intended purpose of making Harry laugh. With that, Harry pulled him close, tucking his knees behind Draco’s. He seemed ready to let that be the end of things.

Before he allowed the other boy to drift off, though, Draco simply had to say one last thing. “You said…” he began slowly, “you said you get nightmares often. I’m sorry I never noticed before.”

“No, don’t worry,” Harry assured him. “I haven’t… that is. I actually haven’t had them while I’ve been with you.”

Draco stared at the wall in front of him, brain grinding to a stop.

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did Harry. Behind him, he began to hear Harry’s breathing even out. But for the first time in a long time, it took Draco a while to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the “mortifying ordeal of being known” quote was written years after this would have taken place, but I thought it was too perfect not to include. So, let’s suspend our disbelief and imagine Draco could have read it somewhere. I hope you agree, it's a beautiful quote


	18. Chapter 18

**Harry**

Harry awoke to the sound of his preset Alarm Spell, and got a full fifteen seconds of staring at Draco’s adorably placid face before the Slytherin woke up, too.

“Turn that blasted thing off,” he whined, throwing an arm over his face. Harry rolled his eyes fondly, unable to help it. He obeyed and turned it off. “Why do you have a bloody alarm set on a weekend, anyway?”

“Sorry. But I have plans, so I had to wake you with me.”

Draco threw off his arm and glared at him. “And why was I the last to know of this scheduling error? A simple warning in advance would have been helpful.”

Harry looked down, guilty. It had totally slipped his mind. “Ah, shit. You’re right. I should’ve told you.”

“We have got to get better at sharing our schedules with each other.”

Harry nodded. He knew Draco was right—and also knew Draco was probably alluding to spontaneously abandoning Harry last night, which had caused rather distressing consequences. Still, Harry couldn’t shake the strange feeling that bloomed in his stomach at the suggestion. Something about the idea of sharing a calendar felt incredibly domestic.

Draco went on. “And what are you doing today that is oh-so-important, anyway?”

“Hermione and I are meeting up with Ron in Hogsmeade.”

“Really?” He sat up. “When’s the last time you saw each other?”

“Not since October, before the Halloween rush got him swamped.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. It must be hard, going so long without him.”

Harry snapped his head up in surprise, ready to see Draco’s face reveal that he was being sarcastic. But, he actually looked genuine, watching Harry intently for what he had to say. Weird things happened inside Harry’s chest at this.

“Er, a bit, yeah,” Harry admitted slowly. “I mean, I used to go every summer without him, so it’s not so bad now, in comparison. But yeah, it gets pretty lonely. Or, it did, before….” He broke off, horrified at himself. One glance at Draco’s pinkening face told him the other boy knew exactly what had been keeping Harry from feeling lonely recently. “Listen,” Harry said suddenly, partially just to change the subject. “About last night. I, er, really appreciate it.”

Draco waved it off, cheeks staying pink. “Well, it was hardly anything special. A small dent in the many things I owe you for.”

Although Draco said it like a joke, it was very clearly not one.

“It was special to me,” Harry said. “So, thanks. Again.”

“Well. Any time, of course.”

Harry felt warm as he left the room and headed out to get ready for the day. He felt certain the only thing that could possibly keep him warmer would be if he took Draco with him altogether.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Alone in his room, Draco flopped down onto his pillow again, staring at the ceiling and trying not to scream. Merlin, Harry was so… he was so…

Draco heaved a long-suffering sigh.

He replayed the events of last night on an infinite loop in his head. Trying to avoid Harry, arriving back and seeing him in his miserable state, waking him with the Reviving Spell. The way Harry’d cried, the way he’d spoken, the way they’d touched. The way they’d kissed again and again.

Harry saying he’d had a nightmare about his abusive relatives, and about Draco. Saying he was so very sorry for hurting him. Harry saying “of course” they were friends, and that he didn’t get his nightmares while they were together, saying “I really can trust you” and “I can’t imagine a life without knowing what you’re really like” and “That sounds like a Muggle quote” and “You can always initiate something with me. Go ahead, whenever you want to.”

Draco didn’t know what to think about any of it. Except that his heart was aching. Aching for Harry. Aching more than he really thought he could bear.

Harry treated him in ways that shocked and perplexed Draco. He didn’t pretend to understand why Harry didn’t recoil from the notion of touching him, or why he spent his time getting friendlier and friendlier with Draco despite who they both were. The only thing he knew was that he could no longer deny the overpowering desire screaming within him at the thought of Harry. Nor deny the barbed tendrils in his chest because it wasn’t requited.

Harry only thought of Draco as someone who needed saving. That was why he’d forced himself to keep Draco company in the first place, and why he spent so much time trying to figure out ways to calm Draco down. He wasn’t there because he wanted to be—although the kissing thing was admittedly a strange thing for him to be okay with—and Draco couldn’t get that confused. Potter could never want him, when all Draco was to him was another one of his helpless victims.

Draco lay there for at least an hour, contemplating his life choices and how he just so happened to have the kind of relationship he currently had with Harry Potter. And then, finally, he determined he’d spent enough time wallowing.

Now that he was awake, he set about arranging his day. He had a letter to write to his mother, as well as various school assignments to attend to. Mind whirling, he got ready and headed down to the kitchens, to grab some food and to consult the house elves about a replacement for his Vanished bedclothes.

* * * * *

When Draco returned to the dormitory, having been assured they’d send replacement bedding to his room for him, Theo was in the common room. He lounged on a sofa, sipping a cup of tea and staring contemplatively at the hearth. Draco stopped short, and just stood there, staring at him.

“Draco, not this again,” said Theo wearily, not looking away from the fire.

“Shut up,” Draco grumbled, embarrassed. “I’m not here to stare at you.”

“Oh, joy to the world.” He didn’t seem like he’d say anything else, which was probably exactly why Draco felt so compelled to tell him more. The bloody git.

“I think. I think I know more. About that thing we talked about, last time.”

Theo looked up at him, face carefully blank. “Really? How so?”

“Just… well…” Draco drew closer until he was standing directly next to Theo. He didn’t know he was going to say it until he said it. But here he was. “I think I. I think I want things to be different between him and me.”

Theo didn’t reply, thank Merlin on a stick. Draco might have combusted if he had. Instead, Theo just nodded, with a thoughtful expression on his face as he mercifully turned his eyes back to the fire.

“We’re close now,” Draco went on, because now that he’d spoken and been met with no resistance, he couldn’t stop. “Actually close. He tells me things. And we… that is, we…” He sat down and leaned in so no one else could hear. What on earth possessed Draco to tell Theo, he didn’t know, except that he simply had to tell someone, and he knew Theo would be discreet about it. For one thing, unlike Pansy, Theo didn’t have an arrangement to compare notes with Hermione Granger. “We’ve kissed. A few times.”

Theo’s brow jumped, but didn’t say anything. He took a long swig of his tea.

Hope clawed up his chest and made itself known before Draco could squash it, and he added, “And I’m wondering what the chances are that it might not be such a coincidence that he’s all right with kissing me, you know? I’m thinking, it doesn’t sound very heterosexual, now, does it?”

“No, I’d reckon it doesn’t quite,” Theo said lightly.

“But even if he did like blokes, that wouldn’t mean that he likes _me_.”

“May I ask why you care whom he fancies?”

“Because I—” he took a deep, steeling breath. But he was so desperate that the words tumbled out without much effort anyway. “Because I want him. I think. I mean I… yes.”

Theo considered this for a moment. Then, he replied, “So, what you’re saying is, I told you so?”

“Shut up!” Draco’s cheeks heated. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that.” He took another breath and forced himself to add, “I’m sorry. For how I acted yesterday. I was frustrated and confused. Which I know you already know, but. Yeah.”

Theo turned to Draco with kind eyes. “It’s all right. It’s a difficult thing to work out. And I knew you’d come to your senses eventually.” He paused. Then, he continued, “But, I must say, I’m not really following you. You two are together all the time, you tell each other things, and you’ve literally kissed.” He let out a laugh, sounding not just surprised but more than a little impressed. And maybe even proud, too. “So what’s wrong? It sounds like you’ve already got him.”

Draco’s chest flared just hearing those words. “I wish it were that simple.” He scowled and ran a frustrated hand through his hair—then patted it back down meticulously. “We do all that _because_ of the sleep thing. We talk, and… other things… because he thinks it will help me feel better. And, it does— _Merlin_ , does it—but I want him to do it for other reasons. I don’t want him to see me as another one of his charity cases. I want him to think of me as… you know…” He gestured his hand vaguely, feeling quite pathetic. “You know.”

“I know.” Theo’s lip quirked. “All right. Yes, that makes sense; you have a point.”

Draco deflated in his chair. The validation made him feel both relieved and exasperated anew. “So what the hell do I do now?”

Theo sipped his tea and then set it down, giving Draco his undivided attention. “If you want him to think of you a certain way, then change the dynamic. Change how you act around him, and make him see you differently.”

“Change it how? Differently how?”

“For one thing, you said you’re worried about seeming like his damsel in distress, right?”

“Well, I didn’t say anything about being a dams—”

“So, you need to be more active. Confident. Make moves to push the envelope with him, and see what new territory this brings you into. Not only will this give you more agency, but it’ll also make him start thinking of you in a sexual or romantic context. Does that make sense?”

Draco nodded avidly, feeling embarrassed, excited, and nervous as hell. “Fuck, okay. I can definitely do that. Can’t I?”

Theo gave him a smile full of sympathy and some thinly-veiled pity. “Also, I know this is a slightly a tall order for you, but if you want to win Potter over, you’ll have to maintain a bit more cool.”

“Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean? I am completely ‘cool’, thank you very much.”

“Draco, you stare at him like he’s sunlight personified, and you practically drool every time he walks into a room.”

“Oh, fuck you. I do not.”

Theo glossed over this protestation and went on. “It seems you’ll have to be a bit more careful with how you act with him. You don’t want to scare him away before you’ve changed his mind about you.”

Draco processed this. It all made sense, he decided. He couldn’t just fall all over himself like a lovestruck first year whispering _Harry, look at me, Harry_ in the corridor every time he saw the Chosen One. He would have to be careful about this, deliberate.

“Thank you,” Draco muttered.

“Any time.” Theo cleared his throat and turned away again, picking up a book. “Now, why don’t you sit down and work next to me? You look like you need to channel your restless energy somewhere.”

Draco nodded and gathered his supplies to join him. The whole time, he repeated encouragements to himself in his head.

Yes. He could do this. He could win Potter over.


	19. Chapter 19

**Harry**

Harry and Hermione made their trek to Hogsmeade together and greeted Ron outside the Three Broomsticks. Then Harry dutifully went in and grabbed them all a table, while Ron and Hermione shared a much-deserved and slightly nauseating reunion snog outside.

When the lovebirds finally made it indoors, the three of them ordered Butterbeers and talked. Harry eagerly absorbed all of Ron’s news about his life, the shop, and his family—Harry’s cheeks only heating a little bit when Ron mentioned Ginny and made awkward eye contact with him.

But it was quite nice, extremely nice, and Harry felt overjoyed to hang out with his best friends again like old times. There was only one thing that threatened to disturb his peaceful bubble.

Harry was more than happy to just sink into the comfort of idle conversation. However, all the while, whenever she thought Ron wasn’t looking, Hermione was shooting Harry meaningful glances.

He redoubled his efforts to just focus on Ron. But as the conversation slowed down to a lull, Hermione’s signals got more and more pronounced, until finally Ron stared heavenward and demanded exasperatedly, “ _What_? For Godric’s sake, if Hermione clears her throat one more time I’m gonna develop a hacking cough just in sympathy. Come on, what is it?”

Hermione dipped her head apologetically. “Sorry. Just, erm. Well.” She raised her eyebrows at Harry again. He could stand it no longer, and groaned in concession.

“ _Fine_. Okay.” He pulled a napkin into his lap to buy himself a few seconds. “I, er, sort of have a bit of a life update,” he said awkwardly—as awkwardness was his M.O.

“Oh?” asked Ron, turning to him with interest. Harry wanted to Disapparate on the spot.

“Well, the thing is. It’s sort of like. Well.” He swallowed, searching for words. He’d long imagined how he might explain this to Ron, but that didn’t help the actual moment at all. He’d never been able to come up with anything. He’d assumed he’d just wing it in the moment, as winging things was what he was best at, but that was now proving a terrible plan. “You know how I’ve been having all those nightmares?”

“Yeah, of course. You and everyone else.” Ron looked at him, expression turning serious. He clearly thought this had to do with their past conversations on the subject, because he added the reminder he had repeated at least a dozen times before: “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Harry.”

“Right. Thank you.” He smiled sincerely at his best friend. But, his hands now clutched his napkin so tightly in his lap it was beginning to tear. “So, er, the thing is. That’s an interesting segue, because, well. Ah. You know. Malfoy happens to have been having issues sleeping of his own.”

Ron’s forehead furrowed. “...Okay. And? What’s he up to this time?”

“See, that’s an interesting question. Because, we’ve sort of. Come to a mutual agreement, of sorts. A... what’s the word...”

“Symbiotic relationship,” Hermione put in quickly, then resumed her attentive silence.

“Yes, that.” He nodded enthusiastically, and did not offer a follow-up.

When moments ticked on and Harry failed to continue, Ron said dubiously, “I’m not following. What is this agreement? Is he making you potions or something?” He snorted at his own suggestion. “I doubt you’d be so daft as to drink anything he’d brew for you.”

“No, nothing like that,” Harry assured him. “Although, actually, that’s the thing. He... he’s actually rather okay now. That is, he and I, we sort of… get on. Really well, actually. He’s nothing like before, nothing like we thought. He’s actually pretty great to be around, even.”

Harry realised he’d begun to smile sappily, and snapped himself out of it. Ron stared at him in stunned silence.

Finally, Ron said blankly, “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s true. We’re sort of... friends now. We’re actually quite close, in fact.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Ron repeated, as though it were the only phrase left to him. “We are talking about the same person, right? Malfoy? As in, Draco Malfoy? The bloke with all the... evil?”

“He’s totally different,” Harry insisted, stomach twisting. “He was so torn up, this whole time. And he’s utterly traumatised by it all. It’s awful to hear him talk about it. And, Ron… he’s so bloody _sorry_. For all of it. He really is.”

Ron blinked.

Then, "Are you sure you haven't hit your head, Harry? Or, you know, been Imperiused or something?"

"No. Gods, I haven't—"

"I know you could fight off the Imperius Curse last time we checked, but that doesn't mean..."

"Ron, he hasn't been cursed," said Hermione. "He's of completely sound mind."

"But—but listen to him! He just put Malfoy and positive descriptions in the same sentence! Harry, seriously, are you having me on?"

Harry's heart sank to the floor. "No. I'm not."

Ron must have seen the dejection on Harry's face, because he didn't say anything else. After a few moments, he sat back and blew out a breath of disbelief. “Well, I’ll be damned," he muttered. "I never thought I’d hear this, especially not from you. Hermione, am I about to hear you tell me the same thing?”

“As a matter of fact, it’s all true,” she admitted. “And, in the spirit of full disclosure, it’s also true about Pansy Parkinson. I imagine it’s true about almost all of them, maybe.”

Ron barked a laugh. “I feel like I’m hallucinating. Bloody hell, will wonders never cease?” He shook his head. “He’s really different?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded, perhaps a bit too emphatically. “He’s thoughtful, and gentle, and funny, and genuine, and kind, and he reads Muggle literature, and we talk about everything, and sometimes it feels like he’s a different person but more than anything it just feels like I’m so lucky to know it’s who he’s been all along.”

Ron stared at him.

So did Hermione.

Then they stared at each other. Then back at him.

“Okay,” said Ron slowly. “Well. Forgive me if this is a bit to process.”

“Of course. It took me a lot longer than one conversation to believe it,” said Harry. His stomach inched toward untwisting, but he didn’t know if he should believe this would be so easy just yet.

“So,” said Ron. “What is this mutual agreement, then?”

His stomach clenched again, tighter than before. Fuck. “Oh yeah, that.”

Ron stared at him expectantly.

“Well, I sort of. That is. Malfoy, he hasn’t been able to sleep for a horrifically long time, and he was basically on the verge of death, and we figured out that if I’m with him he feels safer when I’m there—perks of winning various battles in the face of near-insurmountable odds all the time, you know?—so long story short, we cuddle together every night and comfort each other and then we can both sleep soundly.”

All in all, he was rather quite proud of himself for getting it all out. Despite the fact that he said it all extremely rapidly and in one breath. And he did not dare even attempt to broach the kissing subject.

Ron gaped at him, looking like he didn’t know whether to laugh or faint. After what felt like an eternity, he asked, “And what, pray tell, do you get out of this?”

“What do I… get out of it?”

“Yeah. You know, besides getting a good night’s sleep, and feeling like you’ve saved someone else, and satisfying your constant obsession with Draco Malfoy, that is.”

“Well. That.” Harry shifted uncomfortably. He grumbled. “And also I like it a lot.”

That seemed to decide it for Ron. He proceeded to, slightly hysterically, burst out into peals of uncontrollably loud laughter.

“Ron,” Harry pleaded in distress, “Ron, we’re in public.”

Ron shook his head, laughter only increasing in volume. Tears were pooling in his eyes. Harry had never seen his face so red. “Godric—oh Godric—” he was wheezing.

“Ron, please,” Hermione said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I understand that this is a lot to take in.”

“A lot to take in?” Ron managed, still laughing. He wiped a finger under his eyes to catch his tears. “Hermione, I don’t know if I’ll ever be taken off-guard again. I’m gonna need to figure out how to bottle this feeling and sell it for millions at the store. Merlin, Harry is... Harry and Malfoy are... Merlin’s saggy _pants_!”

Harry should have expected this. Honestly, he’d even expected way, way worse than this. Such as Ron hating him forever and never talking to him again, for example. But now, Harry was so taken aback that he just sat there, mortified, as his best friend struggled to breathe over an unending stream of outright guffaws. He wondered how Ron would react if he ever found out about the kissing thing.

Suddenly, Harry had let out a giggle of his own. And then another. He looked up at Hermione, and she was smiling, too. That was the end of it, and he and a Hermione burst out into full laughter as well.

The three of them sat there, clutching their stomachs, laughing together for the first time in what felt like ages. And Harry was endlessly thankful, he really was. Ron put an arm around Harry’s shoulders as the two of them shook, and Harry knew it would be okay.

His friends loved him, truly loved him, and he loved them right back.

He’d just told Ron something he could still barely stand to admit to himself in his own internal monologue, and Ron didn’t scream or hex him or anything. He just laughed, and put an arm around him. And later, when they all went for dessert, Ron even asked him more details on the serious side, and expressed his concern and genuine support. And when Harry accidentally mentioned how nice Draco’s hair looked when it was mussed from sleep, it only kickstarted Ron’s laugher again for another few minutes straight.


	20. Chapter 20

**Harry**

Harry drifted back to the castle later that afternoon with a smile on his face. He’d left Ron and Hermione to spend the rest of the day together in Hogsmeade. He walked back alone, and though the snow chilled him, his spirits soared high.

He’d spent a wonderful few hours with two people he loved dearly, and he’d also managed to talk about his deep dark secret and not get derided out of house and home. Ron had even, dare Harry think it, reacted quite well to the news.

He reflected on this as he made his way to the eighth year wing. He began unwinding his scarf as he spoke the entrance password, looking forward to a nice warm shower as he stepped into the common room.

When he entered, he did so to find Draco, his Draco, sitting in an armchair with his adorable blond head bowed over a scroll of parchment. Harry did not deem the phrasing of his own thoughts nearly as outlandish as he should have right away, until he noticed how the Slytherin’s body was angled.

Draco’s knees were angled far to one side, his whole torso and head leaning in that direction as well—every line of body language indicating intimacy with the person sitting next to him. And he sat beside Theodore Nott, who seemed engrossed in a book and who was also leaning toward Draco with far too much familiarity for Harry’s comfort.

Harry stared at the scene, only realising after a few too many seconds that he had frozen in place. He startled into action, finally managing to remove his scarf from around his neck despite his now completely jerky, tangle-inducing movements.

A sound like a little surprised hum informed Harry that Draco had looked up and noticed his presence. He glanced up to confirm that Draco was now, indeed, staring at him. Though Harry had done nothing to deliberately alert him of his entrance, he still found himself resentful that it had taken Draco so long to notice.

“Hello,” said Nott, without looking up from his reading. Fucking prick.

Draco glanced at the boy next to him, and seemed to glean some hidden message in Nott’s tone, because after an awkward delay he added his own cool, “Hello, Potter.”

Oh. Okay. That probably shouldn’t have hurt Harry nearly as much as it did.

But something about the fact that he was only greeting him because he was following Nott’s _lead_ , and also because he’d used Harry’s surname despite having called him by his first name so sweetly the night before, made Harry’s blood simmer.

Fine. Whatever. Harry was clearly the one being ridiculous. He was stupid, trying to think of the other boy by his first name during any time outside of emergencies.

“Malfoy,” he said back, tone slightly colder than he’d planned.

Fuck, he had to get out of here. He marched forward, passing the armchairs to get toward where the corridor of bedrooms began.

“Wait. Potter.” Draco— _Malfoy,_ dammit—stood up when Harry passed, and for some reason was actually following him into the corridor.

“Yes?” He stopped and turned to Malfoy, waiting as he’d requested. Harry hated how his heart throbbed hopefully at the prospect of what Malfoy might say.

Malfoy stood in front of him, and took in Harry’s appearance up close. “Your hair is wet.”

“What?” He reached up and touched the hair peeking out beneath his hat even though he already knew it was true. “It was snowing.”

“Oh. And you’ve just got back from Hogsmeade, I presume?”

“Yeah. But Hermione and Ron are still there.”

Malfoy nodded. “Okay.”

Harry waited, but nothing else came. He was ready to burst. “So? Is there anything else you wanted to know about that?”

He’d meant that as a rhetorical question, of course. There was nothing Malfoy needed to know about his personal outing with friends.

He was not at all prepared for when Malfoy nodded and replied, “How was it? Did you have fun?”

Harry blinked. “Er.” He blinked again. “Yes, I did. Thank you.” He cleared his throat, completely bemused. “It was brilliant, actually. I’ve missed Ron loads.” He felt completely blindsided. And also rather guilty. “And, er, what have you been up to?”

“Lazy day in, basically. Right now I’m just finishing up my weekly letter to my mother.”

Oh. They had never talked about Malfoy’s parents before. “That’s lovely. How is she?”

“She’s all right,” Malfoy shrugged. “Azkaban’s a lot different now, after all of Shacklebolt’s reforms. And this summer I’ll even be allowed to visit her.”

Harry smiled at the clear relief in Malfoy’s voice.

Harry had known Narcissa was in Azkaban—on a much lighter sentence than Lucius, given how she’d lied to Voldemort about Harry—and he felt bad now and then for not asking Malfoy about her. But, the topic made him uncomfortable, as he was sure it would likewise do for Malfoy, so he hadn’t risked it. Besides, he knew how much Malfoy regretted the past, and the last thing Harry wanted was to remind him about the criminality of his parents, and all the things he had to be ashamed of.

As a result of these reservations, it was strange talking to Malfoy about this now. But Harry sort of liked it. Liked knowing they could talk about these things. Harry found himself wanting to talk to Malfoy about everything—from his worst days to his boring grocery lists.

At this thought, Harry was almost startled by the intensity of the thawing warmth in his chest.

“Tell her I say hi,” he said.

“I will.” Malfoy nodded, cheeks seeming slightly pinker now than they had a moment ago. “She, er, says hi to you in every letter.”

“She what?” He couldn’t help but let out a laugh of disbelief. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m not, I swear. She always asks after you.”

”Because you’ve told her about...?”

”No, I haven’t told her. She’s been asking since long before you and I started... well. Yes, it’s independent of anything with me. I suppose saving someone’s life gives you a vested interest in their continued wellbeing, and all that.”

“Right, of course. I’d know the feeling, wouldn’t I?”

“You certainly would.” A look that was not quite sad and not quite happy flitted across Malfoy’s face. A moment passed, and suddenly Malfoy was asking, “So, what are you up to now, then?”

“Oh. Er, I was just about to shower.”

“That’s nice.” After the words left his mouth, Malfoy looked slightly mortified at himself. Then he added, “Theo and I are sitting out there doing our work. I suppose that, er, answers the question of whether you’d like to come join me. Us.”

Harry promptly wanted to kick himself for having answered too soon and declared himself busy. He desired nothing more than to break up Malfoy’s and Nott’s little work session for two. “I mean, I do have stuff I could get done, if you’ll wait for m—”

“Perfect! That is, I mean, it’ll be nice to break the monotony of the day with an additional companion. I look forward to it. I mean. How long do you think your shower will take?”

If he paused to wank over how Malfoy looked staring up at him so eagerly, perhaps fifteen minutes. If he jumped in and out so that he could rejoin Malfoy as soon as possible and third wheel any interaction there might be with Nott… considerably fewer.

“Not long. Five minutes, max.”

Instead of continuing Malfoy’s prior positive mood, this response seemed to absolutely horrify him.

“I’m sorry, _what_? Did I really just hear you say you only spend five minutes in the shower?”

“Well, I mean, I thought you might want me to hurry.”

“I want you to hurry, not completely skip out on the entire purpose of bathing. Morgana, this explains your hair, doesn’t it?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose, as though talking to someone insufferably thick. “Let me ask you this, Potter. When you wash your hair, do you rinse your shampoo and _repeat_?”

That was a thing? “Er…”

“And do you, pray tell,”—Malfoy looked heavenward at this, as though he already knew the truth and were pleading to some deity for strength—“ever condescend to use _conditioner_?”

Harry bristled. “Well, if you’re going to react as I suspect you will, then I think I’ll spare myself having to answer.”

“For Merlin’s _sake_!” Malfoy grabbed his arm—fuck, Malfoy was touching him—and led him toward his room. “I am going to help you shower.”

An abrupt bark of laughter flew out at them from the common room. They both snapped their heads around to see the source, but Nott’s head was still bowed and he gave all the appearance of continuing to read, despite his shoulders seeming to shake slightly.

Malfoy scowled and turned back toward Harry determinedly. “Come on,” he demanded, pulling Harry with him into the bedroom. Harry was helpless to do anything but follow.

* * * * *

“This,” Malfoy lectured him a few minutes later, after he’d retrieved his toiletries and brought them into the bathroom, “is an exfoliant. Can you say that with me? _Exfoliant_.”

“Shove off, Malfoy. I’m not a child.”

“Of course you’re not,” he assured him, with the tone of someone speaking to a child.

Harry massaged his temples long-sufferingly. He was grateful that the room was single-use, so no one else could stroll in here and witness this.

“You rub it on your body and it helps remove dead skin,” Malfoy went on. “You roll your eyes now, but just you wait. Your skin will be so soft, you’ll be impossible to stop stroking.”

Harry’s breath stopped at the phrase. Malfoy faltered for a fraction of a second in setting the bottle down next to the others, before resuming as though nothing had happened. “I mean, you won’t be able to stop feeling how smooth your skin is. You know.”

Harry nodded, trying to rid his brain of any other way to interpret the words. “Is that everything?” He gestured toward the products that had been arranged inside the stall.

“Yes,” Malfoy confirmed, much to Harry’s relief. “Now, you get in there, and do as I say. I’ll coach you through it.”

“Wait, you’re going to _stay_?” Harry spluttered.

“Of course,” Malfoy scoffed, cheeks getting pinker with the steam of the shower he now turned on. “You need me to make sure you’re doing it right. Now, go on. I won’t look.”

Harry felt like his heart might explode out of his chest any minute as Malfoy turned his back and Harry quickly shucked his glasses and clothes. He dove into the stall and pulled the curtain closed behind him, irrationally terrified that Malfoy would prematurely turn back around despite having promised not to.

“Okay, I’m in,” Harry called, voice shaky.

“Wonderful. I knew you could do it.”

“Shut _up_ , you tosser.”

“I’ll never shut up, and you love that about me,” Draco dismissed, and Harry hated how much it was absolutely true. “Now, first you’ll grab the face scrub I put closest to the shower head….”

Minutes passed, as Harry went along with everything as Malfoy directed. Loath as he was to admit it, these products did feel rather wonderful on him. He’d never spent much time with this sort of thing before; the Dursleys had always bought the bare minimum for him to get by, including in the way of bath supplies. Plus, they’d yelled at him for wasting water whenever he took more than ten minutes, besides. So, he’d never really learned there was another way out there to go about this sort of thing.

When he voiced this to Malfoy, the Slytherin went silent. After a few moments, he said quietly, “That’s okay. I’m happy I can be of service in teaching you.” And then he went on, almost deliberately cheerful, and directed him with the next product.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re very bossy?” Harry asked, as he rinsed out his second round of shampoo.

“No, never,” Malfoy replied, which made Harry outright laugh. “ _Now_ , if you’re done being difficult, I would like a status report on that shampoo.”

“It’s all off, I think.”

“Good. Go ahead and grab the conditioner now. That’s the bottle over on the end…”

“Yes, I can read, thank you.”

“Well, one can never be too sure, can one?” Malfoy huffed, as though he were the person being insulted here. “Okay, so you’re going to want to… oh, actually, you’d probably muck it up. I’ll just do it for you.”

“You—what?”

Surely Harry had misheard. There had to be some way in which he had misheard.

“Potter, this is quite arguably the most important step. It will in all likelihood completely change your life. It would be irresponsible of me, nay, purely _reckless_ of me, not to make sure this is done properly. Now, if you please, kindly pull back the curtain so that I can access your hair.”

Harry was frozen. His brain was broken. “I… I…”

“Is there a problem, Potter?”

Merlin, _was_ there? Harry had genuinely no idea. It was, depending on how he interpreted it, probably every one of his dreams coming true at once.

It was, however, with another interpretation, utter torture for his fragile nerves that he would likely not survive.

“N-no, none at all,” he said slowly. Woodenly, he pulled back the curtain a few inches.

“More, more. I can hardly fit my hand in there, let alone maneouvre it over you with the required dexterity.”

Fuck, okay, Harry was going to die.

He pulled the curtain back until he could wrap it around his mid-chest, and tilted his head out. Malfoy stared at him with an indiscernible expression, even as Harry passed him the conditioner. Well, at least he wasn’t scolding Harry for dripping so much water outside of the shower, as Harry had half expected the prat to do.

Malfoy opened his mouth as though he might speak, and then closed it again and simply set to work. He poured an amount of the product into his hand and then lifted it to Harry’s head. The next thing Harry knew, he was working his fingers against Harry’s skull in a pattern of movements that felt too good to be legal.

Malfoy’s fingers stroked through his hair and Harry’s eyes drifted shut of his own accord. His mouth hung slightly open.

“That’s… so…” he breathed, with no idea how to end the sentence.

“Hm?” Malfoy asked, fingers not pausing in their ministrations.

“…new.” Colours danced behind his eyelids in time to Malfoy’s touch. “No one’s ever—no one’s ever touched me like this before.”

Now the fingers faltered, but only for a moment. Then they resumed. “I’m glad you’re seeing once again how I am always right. Please, go ahead and enjoy. With any luck, you’ll begin to associate haircare with pleasure, and then you’ll never forego this stuff again.”

“Right. I guess you could say you’re… conditioning me.”

A pause. Then, “Oh, fuck, I hate you!” Malfoy shrieked. He tugged on Harry’s hair hard enough to sting, but Harry found he liked that, too. They dissolved into laughter, and Harry had thought he’d been at his peak happiness walking back from Hogsmeade an hour ago, but he needed to revise that claim now. Nothing he’d ever felt before had anything on this, right here, right now.

Their laughter died down, and Harry went back to reveling in the feeling of Malfoy’s fingers massaging him. It felt so good, so criminally good. And oh, oh fuck… fuck… Harry was getting hard.

He gulped, grateful his eyes were already closed so he would not have to make eye contact with Malfoy right now. He clutched the curtain more tightly than ever. He willed his erection to subside, but the other boy kept touching him, and so it proved an absolutely doomed battle.

Harry was becoming more and more suspicious that Malfoy was perhaps doing this for longer than could possibly be necessary for his hair. But, Harry was not one to complain. For one thing, it still felt sofuckinggood he could melt. And, for another, the longer Malfoy kept going, the longer Harry could delay the danger that he’d have to exit the shower with his raging erection intact.

But, of course, all good things had to come to an end eventually.

“All right, Potter, I think you’re done,” Malfoy finally announced.

Harry forced his eyes open with difficulty. “Really?”

“Indeed. See? Time flies when you’re having fun. And what could possibly be more fun than personal hygiene?”

Harry could think of a few things, all of which coincidentally also involved Draco Malfoy’s hands.

“Now, go ahead and rinse off, and let’s take a look at you.”

 _Fuck_ , it was like the universe were setting him up to suffer. (But what else was new, right?)

He reluctantly turned off the shower, delaying for a few moments on the cold water for obvious reasons. He could only do so for a minimal number of seconds, so Malfoy would not grow suspicious, but he managed it for enough that it mostly subdued his erection. Malfoy passed him his towel, and Harry wrapped it around his waist, heeding Malfoy’s demand that he not touch his wet hair just yet.

When he was satisfied that no bulge was visible beneath the towel, he exited the stall.

Malfoy stared at him in what seemed like slightly stunned silence for a few moments. Harry feared something had gone catastrophically wrong.

But, finally, Malfoy just said, “Brilliant. Follow me back into my room and we’ll get you sorted the rest of the way.

Harry had no idea what that could possibly entail, and in all honesty he was rather apprehensive about it. Perplexed, he followed.

“Hey, you got a new blanket!” he said as he entered Malfoy’s room. “I’m so sorry about that, by the way. I—”

“Stop it; don’t apologise. Now, sit down,” Malfoy ordered, directing him where to move with an imperious finger. Harry obeyed, while Malfoy got out more products.

“These are my favourite moisturisers,” he explained of two, bringing them over and letting Harry bask for a moment in their scents. Everything Malfoy owned smelled amazing. “One must never exit the shower without moisturising, you understand. That would be a cardinal sin.”

“Right, I’m sure,” Harry humoured.

“Now, you go ahead and apply these, while I work on your hair. Okay?”

Harry paused, processing. “Er… still in my towel?”

Malfoy was already climbing onto the bed and lining himself up behind Harry. He put his warm hand on Harry’s bare shoulder for balance, and at this question, his hand clenched. “Obviously still in your towel. What else?”

“Should I maybe put some pants on first?”

The hand on his shoulder disappeared. “Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. Putting on clothing before moisturising would be entirely counterproductive. Do I have to restart you back at the beginning of this course?”

Harry felt like there must be some key information he was failing to comprehend in all this. But, he did not argue further. He applied one cream to his face and neck as Malfoy directed, and then began spreading the other one over his body.

It felt, as should have stopped coming as such a surprise by now, utterly divine. And, Malfoy had been right: his skin felt unbelievably soft beneath his hands.

Above him, Malfoy was drying and combing through his hair. The comb, he could feel, slid through it now with more ease than ever before. Malfoy was also applying some after-shower leave-in spray. Another non-shocker, but he was paying Harry’s hair more attention than Harry ever had in his life.

Harry got to the end of his available skin at around the same time as Malfoy ran out of activities to perform on Harry’s now dry hair. An awkward pause ensued until Malfoy announced that he would turn away so Harry could finish applying the cream to the rest of his previously towel-covered skin.

Harry did so, likewise in a slightly panicked flurry, and threw on his pants before Malfoy could find an excuse to say otherwise again.

When Harry was done, Malfoy turned around, and his face bloomed into an expression Harry had never seen before. After a moment, he spoke, in an exultant sort of whisper.

“Oh, you’re positively glowing, Potter.”

Harry’s stomach fluttered at the words. He fought not to let a blush show.

Interest piqued by the proclamation, and wanting to give his nervous energy something to do, Harry quickly sought a mirror to examine this change. When he saw himself, though, he simply watched his own eyes furrow in confusion. He had absolutely no idea what Malfoy had meant by _glowing_ , but Harry definitely was not doing so. “I look the same,” he argued. “Except maybe a little shinier, from the moisturiser.”

“Are you kidding?” Malfoy laughed. He stared at Harry in the mirror as well. “You look so healthy. So well cared for. Darling, you’re absolutely radiant.”

Harry’s breath stuttered. He had never been called _darling_ before, except for maybe by Fleur. And definitely never by Malfoy.

“Th-thanks,” he said dumbly. He turned back to Malfoy. “But, I don’t know what all that effort on my hair was for. It doesn’t look any less wild than it ever does.”

“Don’t be silly,” Malfoy said. “This wasn’t about making it lie flat, or anything so foolish. It was about _texture_.”

Harry wanted to argue that this was in fact not what Malfoy had said before at all. But he couldn’t, because Malfoy was running his fingers through Harry’s hair again, which was an entirely new kind of pleasant when it was dry.

This had always felt brilliant, when Malfoy’d been doing it while they were snogging, but now Harry could focus on this exclusively. And it was… Merlin, he could drown in it.

“Fuck, I could do this all day,” Malfoy whispered reverently.

Harry’s eyes drifted closed. He wanted Malfoy to do this all day. He really, really wanted him to. “Be my guest,” he murmured, only half conscious of uttering it.

Malfoy stilled. Then he put his free hand on Harry’s arm—Merlin, how were his hands so nice?—and tugged him forward. “Let’s lie down.”

Even in his blissed-out state, Harry managed confusion. “But what about working in the common room…?”

“Hush. We will. This is just for a bit.”

Harry followed him to the mattress, remembering all the times their roles had been reversed in this situation. He could sympathise with Malfoy’s past uneasiness a lot more now that he was experiencing these circumstances for himself.

Malfoy lay down on his side on top of the made bed, and stared at Harry expectantly. Unsure, Harry crawled down after him. “I feel slightly under-dressed,” he said awkwardly.

He meant, of course, that he should probably go put on a shirt and trousers. He was lying down with no blanket, in only his pants, while his companion was fully clothed. Surely this could be remedied by the simple addition of a few articles of clothing.

Instead, however, Malfoy just nodded and sat up. The next thing Harry knew, he was taking off his own clothes.

Harry gaped, slack-jawed and cotton-mouthed. What… what…

Malfoy’s shirt was off. Fuck, Harry had only seen this a few times before. And, _fuck_ , now his trousers were sliding off. Harry couldn’t… Harry couldn’t…

He was hard again. Rock hard. Painfully hard. And Malfoy was stripped down to his pants now and turning back to Harry.

Harry shot forward before he knew what he was doing. He grabbed Malfoy’s head and held it down onto the pillow, trying to play it off to the best of his ability as a friendly caress (if such a thing existed). He had to keep Malfoy’s head there, had to keep their faces near, had to keep him from being able to glance down and see what had become of Harry’s groin.

Malfoy blinked at him.

They were… extremely close. If Harry’d had any hope of losing his erection soon, that ship had thoroughly sailed.

But, at least right now, he was in the lowest possible danger of Malfoy looking down and seeing Harry’s hard-on. And he’d stay so as long as he kept Malfoy distracted. “Er,” Harry said, heart pounding. “What was that you were saying about… about my hair?”

Malfoy still looked startled (as though he had any right, given what he was putting Harry’s nerves through), but he nodded once more and reached up for Harry to resume his past touching. “It’s healthier now.” He twined his fingers into it again. Harry resisted the urge to sigh at the feeling. “Your hair shouldn’t ever lie flat—it, er, wouldn’t look right on you, after all these years of your signature messy look. But it seems healthier already, and it feels like it, too. I’m glad I finally got the chance to do something about that rat’s nest, after all this time.”

Harry’s hand, which was still pressed against Malfoy’s cheek to keep him from lifting his head, moved up a few inches, and he began his own idle stroking of Malfoy’s blond hair. It was very soft, too, he verified, so clearly there must be something to his grooming regimen over a sustained time period.

Harry also couldn’t lie to himself; he’d stared at this hair for years and fantasised about touching it more times than he could count. He’d told himself it was out of curiosity and nothing more. But now that he was actually here, he was thinking…

“That feels good,” Malfoy said quietly. He seemed a bit sheepish. “Was always my favourite thing, when Mum would stroke my hair while she read me stories.”

Harry smiled. “Sounds nice.”

“No one’s ever done that for you?”

The hair in front of Malfoy’s ear curled slightly, and Harry twirled it with his finger. He was entranced by it. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Wish I didn’t.” The fingers in Harry’s hair redoubled their mission. Harry was going to start making noises if he wasn’t careful. “You should’ve had… you should’ve had everything, Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “I feel like I’ve got more than enough now.” And he meant it. He was literally in Malfoy’s bed. And he could stare at him mostly naked. And… and _touch_ him, for crying out loud. He did not feel in want for anything in the world.

Malfoy looked up at him. Harry was struck suddenly by how bright his eyes were, how gorgeous they were. They were lightest grey Harry had ever seen. He had never written a poem but he felt like if he stared at those eyes long enough he could try.

Suddenly, the look in Malfoy’s eyes changed. The next thing Harry knew, Malfoy was pressing forward and placing his lips against Harry’s.

It was all Harry could do not to let out every pathetic sound in the human vocal range at once. With the last two brain cells that hadn’t combusted yet, he made sure to keep his hips away from Malfoy at all costs. His erection could cut a diamond.

Malfoy proceeded to, there was no other description for it, snog the hell out of him. Harry just held onto the other boy for dear life, and tried to give as good as he got.

Finally, Malfoy pulled back again. Harry squinted at him, vision hazy for reasons that had nothing to do with lacking his glasses. He struggled to make eye contact, and he couldn’t even imagine how utterly wrecked he probably looked right now.

“What was that for?” Harry asked faintly. He remembered their agreement. “Are you feeling okay?”

The Slytherin, for his part, looked surprised at himself. He appeared as though, in all the time they’d been snogging, he still hadn’t fully processed what he was doing, and was now realising it to his own shock. “S-sorry,” he murmured, eyes wide. “I was just… you know, I felt myself getting nervous all of a sudden. So I wanted to… use you to… you know, calm down.”

Harry attempted to refocus his eyes, with difficulty. He nodded. “Happy to help.”

“Thank you.”

On one hand, part of him registered how his heart sank at the reminder that Malfoy only kissed him because of its effect on his anxiety. On the other hand, it was all he could do not to blurt out that Malfoy could use him for anything he wanted whenever he damn well pleased.

“We should… we should probably…” Harry began. The sooner he could put on clothes and distance himself from the brain cell-destroying proximity of Draco Malfoy, the better for everyone.

“Right, yeah,” Malfoy agreed. He drew back from Harry to sit up, and Harry quickly turned to hide his erection. Even though this change was what Harry had prompted to happen, he still despised the loss of contact nonetheless. “Theo is probably wondering where I disappeared off to, anyway.”

Immediately, Harry’s good mood clouded over. At least this proved the perfect antidote to his erection. But still, he couldn’t even celebrate this fact, because he felt so instantly surly. _Fucking Nott_. Sure, wouldn’t want to make poor Theo feel lonely without his ickle Draco, now would they? Harry scowled.

“Is something wrong?” asked Malfoy suddenly, evidently noticing Harry’s mood shift.

“No, I’m fine,” Harry assured him, feeling quite the opposite.

Malfoy gave him a considering look. Then, after a moment, he grabbed Harry on either side of the head and kissed him deeply. Harry felt it all the way in his toes.

Malfoy let go, leaving Harry dizzy. He also sort of felt like Malfoy had inserted a literal sun directly into his chest, clearing away any dark clouds and making him feel lighter and brighter than air. It was hard to feel jealous when Malfoy was taking the time to give Harry such a thoughtful and thorough snogging. “You looked upset. Are you better now?”

“I—yeah,” Harry managed. “Thanks.”

“Any time.”

With that, Malfoy got up and re-donned his clothes. Harry did the same, fingers numb and clumsy as he fumbled with his buttons.

He didn’t love that Malfoy only kissed him because of nerves. He knew the feeling was stupid, but part of him couldn’t shake a wave of disappointment every time Malfoy reminded him that each act of intimacy had an excuse. But still, as he put on his glasses and joined Malfoy in the common room, there was a distinct spring in his step. He bet Theodore Nott didn’t get Malfoy kissing _him_ whenever he wanted.


	21. Chapter 21

**Draco**

“Mate, I told you to seduce him, not murder him,” read the note Theo passed him after they had returned from the Showering Incident. Draco promptly Vanished it before Potter could see, along with the second one Theo wrote, which read, “Also, I think he’s glaring at me. Thoughts?”

Draco just rolled his eyes, and pointedly resumed writing his letter.

From then on, it became Draco’s personal mission to win Potter over. While Draco felt a bit idiotic about this whole plan if he thought about it too hard, he was so desperate that he couldn’t resist trying.

He felt like a bloody Gryffindor, prancing around doing outlandish things without thinking them through and praying the world would change for him. And it was so stupid, but it was all he had left. He never could have imagined himself emulating any Gryffindor qualities before, especially not these ones, but now he couldn’t stop.

Right now, Potter was only able to think of him as a weak victim at best, and as a pathetic ex-Death Eater haunted by the ghosts of his dark past at worst. But, if Draco worked hard enough, perhaps he could change Potter’s mind.

For Potter’s part, he seemed perfectly willing to go along with most of Draco’s initiatives. Draco thanked Merlin above for that fact. However, Potter never seemed to question it, either—and he definitely never tried to initiate anything new that Draco hadn’t already introduced. This infuriated Draco to no end, and more often than not, he felt tempted to scream.

What was more, whenever anything happened, Potter seemed intent on linking it back to the sleep thing again. Draco would kiss him, and the moment their lips separated, Potter would ask Draco what was wrong. Or, Potter would be the one to kiss Draco, which for a moment would send Draco's heart soaring, and then Potter would immediately brush it off with talk of some nerves that prompted it.

It was terribly confusing, especially because it was hard for Draco to believe the fireworks he felt were so one-sided. He'd feel Potter shake against him, hear his breath stutter, see the dazed look in his eyes. And he'd be sure Potter had to feel, at least a little bit, what Draco felt when they touched. But then Potter would remind him, every single time, that the only thing he really felt during their kisses was concerned.

It brought Draco crashing back down to earth each time, and continually stole his ability to form any kind of hope.

Potter only treated Draco the way he did because of his bloody Saviour Complex. And while Draco could not help but find even _this_ charming—because Draco truly was so gone for him that even Potter's inconvenient flaws made him more perfect—it hurt like hell, too. It was a repeated blow to his dreams of being anything more to Potter than just a pitiful victim.

And every time, it was always _back to the drawing board, back to the drawing board_ , on endless, maddening repeat.

But he couldn’t give up. At least, not yet, anyway.

* * * * *

At their next Potions class, Slughorn announced that he’d finished reviewing their midterm projects.

Nervously, everyone rearranged themselves in the room to wait with their partners, while Slughorn came around and handed them back their marks. Stomach jittery, Draco stood next to Potter, willing himself not to freak out so much.

Sure, Draco’s marks had slipped dramatically at the beginning of the term due to his debilitating sleep deprivation, and consequently his midterm project results could make or break his final mark in the course. And sure, he was required to do well in Potions in order to qualify for basically anything he’d want to go into after Hogwarts. And sure, given how his entire past served as a horrible strike against him in job applications, he needed all the help he could get in his school transcript.

But, whatever. It wasn’t like he needed to have a meltdown over it. It wasn’t like he should be on the verge of hyperventilating, or anything. As he currently was.

Potter put a discreet hand on Draco’s arm, rubbing it lightly to soothe him.

“It’s all right,” Potter said in an undertone. “You’re a genius. You’ve got nothing to worry about; I know it’ll be fine.”

Draco didn’t exactly feel comforted by this assurance. But, he did feel slightly more distracted from his stress. Potter had called him a _genius_.

He was still blushing when Slughorn handed them their folded, marked-up rubric. Draco was too nervous to take it, so Potter accepted it from the professor with a smile.

“There you go,” Slughorn said cheerily as he passed it off. “Lovely job, as always.”

He moved on to the next students, as though he hadn’t punched Draco in the stomach with hope. Potter nodded encouragingly at that. “Hey, he said ‘lovely’! That’s a good si—”

Draco snatched the paper away and read it voraciously.

_Organisation — Outstanding_

_Clarity — Outstanding_

_Originality — Outstanding_

_Style — Outstanding_

On and on Draco read down the rubric, feeling more lightheaded as he went.

_Overall Mark — Outstanding_

“Oh my gods,” he whispered. “Oh my gods.”

“What?” asked Potter, leaning over to look. He gasped. “Oh my gods! Merlin, I haven’t had a Potions mark this high since sixth year!”

They tumbled into each other’s arms, hugging tightly. Draco was overwhelmed.

It had been so long since he’d felt truly proud of his academics. Growing up, Draco had always excelled, and he’d been confident in his skills and intelligence. He had subsequently been rattled when he got to Hogwarts, and henceforth been continually overshadowed by Hermione Granger at every turn.

Still, even then, he had retained that he was capable of excellence. Despite his resentment and shame at repeatedly losing out to Granger—which were goaded to a large extent by his father—he’d believed in his own cleverness and talent.

That was, however, until his life became filled with ceaseless daily horrors. Then, his ability to prioritise academics understandably went out the window, as did his ability to feel good at pretty much anything. And neither ever quite returned.

But now, Draco was grasping in his hand tangible proof that he could do it again. That his academic success wasn’t over. That he had potential.

“I’m so proud of you,” said Potter in his ear, fueling Draco’s joy, making his heart sing. “I told you you’re a genius.”

Draco shook his head against Potter’s shoulder. In the past, he would have soaked up any and all praise he could garner—and he especially would have jumped at praise from Harry Potter, if that could have ever been possible—and often take more credit than even Draco knew he was due. But now, even though he was elated to share this success with Potter, such a pronouncement from the Gryffindor just felt a bit hollow.

“I think it has more to do with you being Slughorn’s favourite,” Draco muttered. His tone was wry, but the sentiment was serious.

“Shut up. That’s not why.” Potter’s hand moved to Draco’s hair, ruffling it slightly as he cradled his head. “It’s because you’re talented as fuck.”

Draco buried his head into Potter’s neck despite his own better judgment. Potter was so wonderful. And he smelled so good. Draco could drown in it, in him.

Potter smelled good all the time, of course—he always had. And it had infuriated Draco all these years, how much his heart would go reeling whenever he breathed the scent in.

But now, it was different. Potter’s scent had become mingled with that of Draco’s own bath products, which he had bidden Potter use all the time now. And the result made him smell a different sort of amazing. It made him smell like he was marked by Draco. Marked by his scent. Marked like Potter was _his_.

And Potter had just let Draco do it. Just let Draco mark him, and hold him, and breathe him in, and adore him.

Something twisted in Draco’s stomach. Oh no.

“Potter…”

“And you know I’m bollocks at Potions,” Potter went on, as though the world still revolved around his complimenting Draco, instead of around the current crisis. “I’ve never done so well unless I was basically cheating—which is sort of a long story. But, the point is, you’re so bloody talented. You’re amazing. I can’t believe I got lucky enough to partner with you.”

Circe, fuck. Draco fought the way his heart swooped, and tried to pull away. “Potter, wait…”

“If I’m going to take credit at all, it’s just to say we work so well together. Because I’ve got to admit, we really do.”

The possible meanings behind those words only intensified Draco’s panic. “Potter,” he hissed urgently. “We’re in public.” Potter froze.

They sprang apart, Potter shoving away so forcefully that it looked like he’d been burned.

Morgana. Morgana le fucking Fay.

Draco scanned the room, terrified that people had seen them. Luckily, they were far to the side, and it seemed like the other students were too distracted to have noticed. Thank Merlin they'd stopped hugging when they had. Thank Merlin and Circe and the Fates and everything else that was holy.

They stood, panting, in slightly stunned silence. Draco glanced back at Potter, who looked utterly dismayed.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco finally. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Potter shook his head, which could mean anything.

“Hey, Harry,” said Par—no, Padma—well, one of the Patil twins. Whichever one was in this class… the Gryffindor one. She was making her way past the tables toward them, evidently having no idea that something strange had just happened. “How’d you do?”

“Pretty decent,” said Potter, doing an admirable job switching gears to a sociable smile. And naturally, of course, he spoke as humbly as he always did. Draco had long-since given up telling himself it wasn’t at least a little lovely. “You?”

“‘Exceeds Expectations’! I’m so relieved; Slughorn was harsh this time. But my parents will be so glad.” She beamed, and Draco’s sensory processing faded out as Potter congratulated her and they continued to talk.

So many things had just happened at once. They’d gotten the highest possible mark—and apparently Slughorn had been harsh in his reviewing, too. Then the two of them had hugged in public, and Potter had told Draco he thought he was “a genius” and felt “lucky to be his partner” and believed they “worked well together”. Then they’d realised what a terrible mistake such a public display had been, and Draco had never seen Potter look so horrified at himself.

Draco’s mind spun over it all for an indeterminable time. At last, Potter’s words broke through Draco’s thoughts, as he waved and called out, “See you later, Parvati!” (All right, so that was the girl’s name).

She left, and the two of them stood uncomfortably, neither of them attempting to make eye contact.

“Er, you can keep that,” Potter finally muttered, heading back to his seat and leaving Draco there with the rubric. Draco clutched it to his chest, feeling many feelings all at once.


	22. Chapter 22

**Harry**

“I’m an idiot,” grumbled Harry by way of greeting as he sat down next to Hermione for lunch.

“Aw, what’s wrong with Malfoy now?” she asked without hesitation. Harry whined.

“I hugged him in class and he freaked out because we were touching in public.”

“Oh,” she said slowly, furrowing her eyebrows. “Why were you hugging him in class?”

“I don’t know!” He threw his arms up exasperatedly. “He was just— _there_ —and I was happy, and caught up in the moment. And I’m so used to touching him and being close to him that I didn’t think about it.” He put his face in his hands. “I’m so bloody confused, Hermione.”

“Shhh, it’s okay.” She rubbed a comforting hand over his back. Harry felt like a hysterical child. “It’s hard to go back and forth like that. Of course you’re confused.”

He nodded miserably. “I’m an idiot,” he repeated.

“Why do you feel like an idiot?”

“Because I got carried away. And I liked it too much, and then the way he _reacted_ … Merlin. He seemed so horrified. I can’t believe I did that.” Just picturing the look on Malfoy's face again was enough to make Harry wince full-bodily.

“Why was he horrified?”

“I told you: we were in _public_. That’s not the sort of thing we can do in public.” He sighed, a dejected weight growing in his chest. “You know how private he is. People will see, and say things, and that’s probably his worst nightmare. And besides that, even if no one sees, it’s not…” He lifted his head from his hands and shook it. “Our relationship isn’t like that. We don’t touch _just because_. We do it because it’s necessary—because there’s some job to be done. And I was an idiot and forgot that. I tried to hug him just because, and he had to remind me.” Harry could not fight his scowl as he muttered, “He made it loud and clear that it isn’t okay to touch him outside of necessity.”

Hermione gave him a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Harry. Did people see it today?”

“No, thank Godric. Malfoy’d probably hate me forever if they did. That is, if he doesn’t hate me already.”

“Harry, don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m sure everything is fine. It was a simple mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t! I completely forgot everything about who we are to each other, all because I can’t separate things in my head.” His chest heaved. He felt awful. “I can’t ruin things for him just because I get distracted and careless. Even if we do have just about the strangest relationship in the world, and it’s only getting stranger.”

“Getting stranger how?”

“I… well, that is…” He wondered if he should continue to keep it from her, but found that he needed her support too much to hide it to himself any longer. “So, we’ve kissed. Quite a few times, in fact.”

Hermione’s eyebrows flew up so high that they disappeared beneath her hair. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And, like, that’s fine, don’t get me wrong. It’s been really helpful.”

“Hold on, what do you mean by ‘helpful’?”

“Just, you know, productive. Makes both of us feel better when something is wrong—like a panic attack or a nightmare. It’s just like the cuddling.”

She nodded slowly, her brain seeming to do a million rapid-fire calculations at once. “To clarify, you don’t find the kissing a problem?”

“No, it’s quite nice, actually.” He had no idea why he blushed when he said it. There was nothing to blush over, anyway—it was all just professional, business-related kissing.

“Does Malfoy seem to find it a problem?”

“No. He initiates it a lot of the time.”

She nodded again. “Remind me why you were hugging in class?”

“What? Er, we were celebrating. We got a perfect score on our Potions project.”

She beamed at that, pausing her questions. “Oh, congratulations! And I know that’s how you stumbled upon the sleeping arrangement in the first place, which just adds to your luck.” Her smile was contagious, and Harry joined in sheepishly, too. “I must say,” she added, “you couldn’t have picked a better Potions partner.”

“I know. I was actually going to partner with Parvati. But, there was a bit of a misunderstanding with Slughorn.” He rolled his eyes at the memory of himself. “It was my fault, for hanging around Malfoy’s desk so long, while we were supposed to be pairing up. But… I suppose I couldn’t help myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he always looked so unwell, you know? And I wanted to know what was going on with him.” He shrugged. “Plus, he was so quiet since the war. I suppose I was going through a bit of withdrawal, not talking to him.”

“That sounds like you,” Hermione said, with a good-natured giggle.

Harry shrugged again, smiling wryly. “I probably could have argued with Slughorn more if I’d really wanted. But, I dunno, I think part of me had sort of hoped we’d get partnered together.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt insane.

One glance at Hermione showed that her eyebrows had returned to her hairline.

“Whatever,” he said quickly. He wished he could Obliviate her—and himself. “Anyway, I figured it would be miserable. But it wasn’t.”

“I’m sure,” she replied. He couldn’t place her tone and didn’t try. “Listen, Harry, I think I might know how to help you feel less confused about all this.”

“Really?” He sat up eagerly. “How?”

“You and Malfoy should spend more time together in daylight hours, doing unrelated activities to your private arrangement. I think that would help both of you understand each other’s boundaries better. And, it will make you feel less confused about how to approach your relationship.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows, considering. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.” She ladled food onto her plate carefully. She still seemed to be calculating in her head. “You know what? Final exams are coming up, and I’m sure he’ll be a good influence on you. Why don’t you revise together?”

“Ugh, Hermione, this is all a ploy to get me to do schoolwork, isn’t it?”

She grinned at him. “No, it’s not. But, hey, it couldn’t hurt! I mean, if all it takes to get you to do your schoolwork is Draco Malfoy, then I wish I’d started dragging him to the library with us our first year.”

Harry fought his cheeks heating. “Look, even if I do ask him, he’ll say no. He’ll think I’m being weird for suggesting it.”

“No he won’t.”

“Are you kidding? First of all, yes he will. Second of all, even _I_ think it’s weird for me to suggest it.”

“No it’s not! Ugh, listen, just give it a try.” She offered him a hopeful smile. “If it helps, I can be there as a buffer. Starting next week, there won’t be a time when I’m _not_ revising for exams, so I’ll be there whenever you two want to join.”

He mulled this over. Hermione arranged a bite on her fork, and went on, “Anyway, I think it’s about time he and I hung out, too. The only Draco Malfoy I’m acquainted with is the old, terrible one. If he’s so important to you, then I should get to know him better.”

Harry ducked his head, a pleasant warmth blooming in him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Of course.” She gave him a last smile before finally beginning to eat.

Harry went to do the same. However, after a few minutes, something new occurred to him. “Wait. You’re going to tell Pansy Parkinson about the kissing thing, aren’t you?”

She gave him a look of exaggerated confusion. She pointed dramatically at the fact that she was chewing, as if to say: _I’m so sorry, I can’t reply, as I have food in my mouth—my sincerest apologies for being unable to answer that question!_

Harry rolled his eyes, laughing, and punched her playfully in the arm.

* * * * *

**Draco**

“DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY!” shrieked Pansy, knocking loudly on his door in the late afternoon. Oh no.

Draco opened the door and she barged in. He had just enough time to close it behind her before she shouted, “Is it true you and Potter are kissing now?!”

Oh _monumental_ no. “Oops.”

“DRACOHOWCOULDYOUNOTTELLMEITHOUGHTIWASYOURBESTFRIENDWHATDOYOUMEANYOUTWOHAVEBEENKISSINGWHAT—”

“Pansy, please! They’ll hear you on Mars!”

She sucked in a long breath, looking fit to burst from the restraint it took. “Why is it that I had to find out from _Hermione Granger_ that you have been snogging the Chosen One?!”

“Well, because you two agreed to compare notes.”

“ _Draco_!”

He rubbed his eyes. “Right. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“Damn right you should have!” She looked outraged beyond compare. She marched over to his bed and collapsed dramatically onto it. “How could you not tell me? How long has this been going on?”

“Er… I don’t know… it’s been rather gradual.”

“‘Gradual’? What does that mean?!”

Draco sighed and sat down next to her. “Well, it started with just the sleeping. And then it was… you know… cuddling. And then touching. Like, he’d put his hands under my shirt or—”

“Draco, I am going to _kill you_.”

“—and, I don’t know, around last week we started kissing. It just sort of happened.”

She stared at him, looking like her eye might start twitching any moment. “So,” she began carefully, as though trying to control herself. “You and Potter have been slowly but surely moving from sleeping in the same room to snogging shirtless in a matter of weeks, and you think this is totally normal?”

“No, I know it’s very much not normal,” Draco replied, bitterness rising in his throat. “You don’t have to remind me.”

Her face softened. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She sighed. “Really, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry; I know I should have. But it’s all so confusing. And I knew you’d make a big deal about it, and you’d report it back to Granger like always, and it’s really not like that.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s not like that’? What, are you really going to tell me your relationship is just out of convenience, and there are no emotions attached whatsoever? That you just do this to help you two sleep better and it doesn’t mean anything to you? That’s what Granger told me Potter said.”

Draco had already known Potter thought of it that way, but that didn’t make it hurt any less to hear it confirmed. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is. And nothing more.”

“Draco…” She shook her head. “That’s absolutely ridiculous. You are aware how ridiculous that is, right?”

“Yes, I am fully aware how ridiculous it is. I’m pathetic for needing help, and it’s absurd that the great Harry Potter is willing to do so much for me, especially when he’s getting nothing in return. It’s a completely ridiculous situation. Thanks for making sure I never forget.”

“No, that’s not at all what I…!” Pansy let out a frustrated groan and sat up. “You’re not pathetic. I’m glad you have what you have with Potter. Okay?”

He shrugged, glowering sullenly. “How long has Granger known?”

Pansy hesitated at his subject change, but went along with it. “She just found out today. Apparently Potter told her because of something to do with Potions class?”

“Merlin.” Draco puffed out a heavy breath. He felt exhausted. “Yeah. We hugged by accident. People almost saw.”

“And you got upset?”

“Of course I got upset!” He dropped his hands. “Imagine what would’ve happened to his reputation if people saw him hugging a Death Eater.”

Pansy looked at him with kind, sad eyes. “Ex-Death Eater,” she reminded.

“It’s all the same to them.”

She scooted closer to him until they bumped sides. “It’s very thoughtful of you to look out for his reputation. But I think Potter can handle himself.”

“That’s what he always says. And it’s bullshit. People should look out for him more.”

“You’re a really good friend.”

Draco examined his cuticles closely, trying to ignore how her eyes burned against the side of his face.

“Hey,” she said. “I heard you and Potter got a perfect score on your project. I’m so proud of you.”

Draco couldn’t stop his own flash of pride at the compliment. “Thank you. I can’t describe what a relief that was.”

“Of course. And it’s doubly impressive that you managed it while working with him, of all people.”

“Yeah. I was just as surprised as anyone, but… he’s actually quite talented. And I suppose we work rather well together.” His stomach fluttered as he remembered Potter telling him the same thing. Draco couldn’t help but believe it was at least a little bit true.

“Absolutely! Circe, if you keep this up, I bet your marks will be glowing by the end of the year.”

“I mean, I’ll try to—”

“Oh, here’s an idea! Since you and Potter worked so well together on your midterm assignment, what if you revised for final exams together, too?”

“What?”

“Yes, it’s genius! You’ll be able to continue with the brilliant dynamic that helped you score so highly on your project. And, he’ll be able to comfort you if any stress threatens to interfere with your studies.”

Draco considered this. He dared not let himself hope too much. But, it sounded like the perfect excuse to spend time with Potter, in a way totally unrelated to Draco’s helplessness in sleep. And spending hours with Potter… perhaps for multiple days on end… why, that would be an _amazing_ opportunity to expand their relationship and make Potter see him differently.

However, still: “He’d never agree to that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, I’ll be there.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He spends so much time with you. You can’t seriously claim after everything that he hates it.”

Part of Draco absolutely believed that to be the case. But he felt stupid trying to argue it, so he went with another, valid reason. “Regardless, Potter loathes schoolwork. He’s not a revising sort of bloke.”

But Pansy had an answer for that, too. “Well, if he knows he’ll have your help, I’m sure he’ll be more willing. Granger’s too busy with her own studies to ever give him the attention he needs to understand a subject. But, you’ve always been a brilliant tutor whenever one of us needs it—so, if you’re there, you’d be the ideal teacher for him.” She smiled triumphantly. “Plus, he already knows what wonders you can do for his marks. I’m sure he’d be interested.”

Draco sat in silence for a few moments, processing all this. It sounded too good to be true. However, when she put it that way, he thought that it just might work. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll think about it.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Harry**

When Harry came by that night, his stomach was fluttering uncontrollably.

“Hey,” he greeted quietly as the door opened to reveal Malfoy. His hands itched to touch that soft blond hair. He stuffed them in his pockets instead, and nudged the door closed with his foot.

“Evening,” Malfoy greeted back, moving over to sit on the bed. Harry ached just looking at him.

“Listen,” he said slowly, narrowly resisting the urge to lift his hands and wring them. He settled for clenching them into fists. “I’m sorry about today. In Potions.”

Malfoy’s mouth pinched into an unhappy line. “That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I—I shouldn’t have hugged you in public like that. I just got distracted and, and confused.”

“Yes, I know; I could tell,” Malfoy replied, looking away and still clearly unhappy. “I’m glad I had the presence of mind to stop you.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He didn’t _want_ to be stopped from hugging Malfoy, he realised miserably. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to walk over to Malfoy right now, gather him up in his arms, and never let go. _Fuck_. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good.”

It felt like a very small and very sharp knife had been plunged directly into his sternum, Harry noted. Merlin, he was so ridiculous.

Fine. So, Malfoy was confirming once and for all that he didn’t want Harry to touch him outside of emergencies, when calming down dangerous emotional outbursts took precedence over his obvious aversion to Harry’s touch. Whatever. Of course Malfoy felt that way—that was all their arrangement had _ever_ been about.

When they’d told each other toward the beginning that they liked the touching, they’d meant that it was tolerable—and certainly better than the alternative. That was what Malfoy had meant, at least: he’d let Harry know that he was comfortable with certain contact (in those _specific_ situations) so that Harry could know what was acceptable touching and what was not, when he was helping Malfoy work through his anxiety.

And that was what Harry was supposed to have meant, too, when he’d expressed that he liked it. He was supposed to have meant that he didn’t secretly resent Malfoy’s needs—that he was more than happy to help him this way. He _wasn’t_ supposed to be thinking of it in terms of attraction or desire, or anything so unprofessional. And he wasn’t supposed to be taking advantage of their arrangement for personal gain.

He couldn’t let his confused feelings toward Malfoy distract him from the job he had to do.

Harry had simply let his feelings get out of hand, somewhere down the line. He just couldn’t make that known to Malfoy. And he had to find a way to get over it without making it any more of Malfoy’s problem.

He thought back to what Hermione had said earlier, about spending time with Malfoy in other contexts to make their relationship easier to separate in his head. It was as good a plan as any, and Harry didn’t have other ideas. “So, er, that Potions mark, huh?” he began with, trying his best to sound casual despite his irregular heartbeat.

Malfoy seemed glad for the subject change. “Yes. I’m ever so pleased. We work quite well together, I must admit.”

 _Perfect segue_. “I agree! And, you know… I was thinking… well, I usually never get such high marks, especially in Potions.”

“Right, you mentioned something about cheating. This sounds familiar, given your quite unusual performance sixth year. I was in the midst of yearlong psychological torture by the Dark Lord, and even I noticed.”

Harry let out an involuntary laugh, and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah… like I said, long story.”

“With you, it’s always a long story.”

Harry’s face heated despite himself. He pushed himself to get back to the main topic. “So, anyway, I was thinking… it’s quite lucky that we work so well together.”

“Agreed. I’d quite like not to fail out of school.”

“Me neither!” Harry was aware that he was getting a bit too enthusiastic not to seem mental. But, Malfoy was giving him the ideal opportunities to suggest Hermione’s idea. He could barely contain his excitement. “And final exams are coming up, which I’d also prefer not to fail.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Malfoy scoffed. But, he eyed Harry carefully. He said slowly, “I suppose, if you want not to fail, it might be useful to have some help while you revise.”

Merlin, Harry could kiss the sky. He’d have assumed Malfoy would shut down the conversation before Harry got this far. But it was going perfectly! “Absolutely. And, what better help than someone who’s already tops at Potions, and who I already know I work well with?”

“Besides Granger, you mean?”

“Huh?” His mind was already so fixed on the thought of Malfoy and him tangling their feet together under a library table, that it took a fair amount of effort to follow this new thread. “Oh, er, no. She usually just checked over my essays to, like, make sure I didn’t write ‘mice’ instead of ‘ice’ or something.” He shrugged. “But it was never like working with you. I actually felt like I understood the material with you.”

Malfoy’s eyes shined so brightly that Harry was tempted to start calling him _Draco_ again. He shoved that feeling down and kept talking. “Anyway, she’ll be revising every minute of the day soon, so we can even join her in the library, if you’d like.”

“That… might be nice.”

“Brilliant.” Harry grinned. That had been so easy!

Then, after a pause, Harry couldn’t keep himself from asking, “And, er, will Parkinson or Nott mind?”

“What? Why would they mind?”

“Just… you know. You spend a lot of time with them.”

“So? I’m not following.”

“Nothing.” His stomach resumed its uncomfortable fluttering. But he felt it necessary to ask. He couldn’t deny he’d been apprehensive about their respective relationships with Malfoy for a while now. “Just, er, I don’t want to make either of them upset by monopolising your time, or anything.”

Malfoy stared at him, looking bemused. “Pansy’s the one who threw us together in the first place. She’d have no problem with it.”

Harry couldn’t fight how his chest warmed. “Okay. And, er, Nott?”

“He doesn’t give a shit what I do with my time. If he knows I’m alive, that’s enough for him to be satisfied.” Malfoy rolled his eyes at the thought.

“Really? I see you around each other a lot. I figured you were close.”

“Theo and I were never really friends. Being among the few Slytherins who came back this year created a sense of kinship, but we don’t really _hang out_ much. And when we do, we mostly just do homework in silence.”

“Oh.” Hope was swirling inside Harry’s ribcage, and he struggled to shove it down enough to speak. “He won’t be angry that I’m stealing his homework partner, then?”

“On the contrary. He’d probably thank you for keeping me out of his hair.”

Harry felt like a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was stupid, of course, to act like it meant anything one way or the other how Malfoy’s friends thought of him. But all his mind could think on repeat was, _he’s not with either of them, they don’t look at him that way, he doesn’t look at them that way_ , over and over again.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Good to know.”

“Well, I look forward to working with you, then.”

“Yeah! I, er, look forward to my marks picking up.”

Malfoy gave him a smile back, which looked suddenly strained. “All right, well, hop in before the bed gets cold,” he said.

With that, Malfoy lay down and pointedly closed his eyes. Harry joined him.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco wasn’t going to lie to himself and claim it didn’t bother him. The truth was that it bothered him very much, how Potter only wanted to spend time with him for the good of his marks.

But Draco could not lose hope. Hope was the only thing getting him through the gnawing madness of his time with Potter. Through the way his skin ached whenever Potter wasn’t touching it, and burned whenever he was.

When Potter held him, Draco always fought not to succumb to the waves of desperation that crashed through him. When Potter snuggled close, or brushed his lips against the back of Draco’s neck, Draco resisted the near-overpowering urge to roll over and kiss him senseless.

But instead, he had to bury his head in his pillow, to try and drown out the sounds of Potter always adding something like, “Sorry, just felt nervous about Quidditch” or “Sorry, just thought of exams”immediately after.

Draco’s distress about Potter didn’t improve as his therapy appointment approached. Instead, it was merely compounded by his distress about therapy.

* * * * *

At this appointment, they talked about a lot.

The mind healer asked Draco about his past, about his childhood, about the war. His insomnia came up, as Draco had known it would, but he didn’t need to work hard for the conversation to stay off of Potter. It turned out that Draco had a lot to unpack about things besides that.

“When she contacted me, Madam Pomfrey told me you had experience with chronic insomnia,” was how the mind healer introduced the topic. “Can you tell me a bit about that?”

Reluctantly, Draco did so. He explained feeling unsafe at all times, and how this feeling was exacerbated when he tried to sleep, and how the insomnia had been going on for years. He kept the conversation off of Potter, only saying enough to express that if he didn’t have his new coping mechanism, he’d probably have gone mad or died by now.

The mind healer listened carefully, taking notes. When he finished his account, she said thoughtfully, “The symptoms you’re describing sound remarkably in line with a certain magical phenomenon.” She skimmed her notes again, and then looked up. “When a witch or wizard undergoes long periods of physical stress, their magic can be channeled inward, into sustaining them. It may keep the person alive past the limits of what a human could normally withstand.”

“What?” asked Draco. “I’ve never heard of that.” He replayed what she’d described in his head, and waved a hand dismissively. “And anyway, if that really existed, everyone would be immortal.”

“It is extremely uncommon. And it could not last indefinitely—but, it would sustain someone longer than otherwise possible, which is what I think happened in your case.”

He waved a hand again. “If it’s that uncommon, then there’s no reason I would’ve been able to manage it.” He’d been too ill to think straight back then. There was no way he’d have been able to accomplish such complicated magic, even if he’d wanted to.

“Well, let’s see. You mentioned that you hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep for many years, and have recently undergone a period of no sleep at all. How long did you say the latter period lasted?”

“Er, I don't know. It was all sort of a blur.”

“Did it last longer than a week? Longer than two weeks?”

“Oh, definitely.”

She nodded. “Are you aware that such a thing would normally be impossible for a person to survive?”

Draco shrugged in response. “Yes, I suppose. I mean, I was too far gone to question it much. But, yeah, I guess I thought it was strange.”

“And, you said that during this time your magic stopped working?”

“Yes, but I figured that was just because I got bad at basically everything around then. I could barely keep my head on straight.”

“True, that definitely explains your loss of magic—but only to a point. In reality, something else was also at play.” She sat forward in her chair. “All your resources, including your magic, were being drained—because your body was using them to keep you alive. As I said, it is a highly rare phenomenon, and most witches and wizards can never achieve it. Normally, someone in your position would die, or at least suffer extreme lasting damage, from such prolonged sleep deprivation. But you seem to have escaped largely unharmed, and with no longterm effects.”

He looked down at his himself in dull shock. He’d never thought that hard before about how he’d managed to survive it all, without a proverbial scratch on him; he’d been far too distracted to contemplate it. But… what the mind healer was saying began clicking many things into place with a sharp _snap_.

“How did it suddenly stop?” he asked. He thought of Potter, of how seamlessly Draco had fallen asleep the moment he’d had the necessary company. “Why didn’t it just keep going until my magic ran out and I died?”

“That must have something to do with your new coping mechanism,” she replied, looking at him meaningfully, like she wanted him to admit out loud what the coping mechanism was. “Your body must have sensed that it felt safe enough to let go.”

Draco contemplated this.

Even when he’d thought Potter hated him, Draco had felt safe around him, on a subconscious level. And his magic had responded accordingly, allowing him to relax, slip into vulnerability, and recharge. It all made sense. And as he analysed his feelings, he knew that it was true.

The mind healer watched as the gears turned in his head. Suddenly, he realised that she seemed moments away from asking him to elaborate on it.

Quickly, he rushed to change the subject, too raw to talk about his emotions toward Potter just yet. “If it’s so rare, then how did I manage it?” he asked. “Especially without even trying—without even noticing.”

“I will venture a guess,” she replied. “It seems to owe to the fact that your body has been cultivating this skill for years. Your difficulty sleeping over such a long period of time seems to have served as preparation of sorts, for this more demanding stretch without sleep. You worked up to the skill in gradual increments over the years. If you hadn’t, I doubt you would have survived this.”

“Salazar on a stick,” he breathed. “So, you’re saying it’s a good thing I haven’t been sleeping well for years?”

“Not quite. It would obviously be better for you if you hadn’t had such sleep troubles to begin with.”

“Yeah, but, you know what I mean.”

“The combination of factors certainly proved lucky this time around. However, that doesn’t mean you should stop working to try and find a more long-term solution.” She looked at him meaningfully again. “I’d like to take this opportunity to emphasise how desperately your body has been working to save you. Don’t you think that’s remarkable?”

He looked away.

“Draco,” she said. “Your body wants you to be okay. I think that sounds like a pretty wonderful incentive to try to keep yourself healthy.”

He shrugged, insides shaky. “Whatever.”

“Why don’t you talk to me about why you find it so difficult to accept help?”

He turned back to her again, surprised at how quickly resentment bubbled in him and turned his tone bitter. “Because I don’t need help.”

She simply raised her eyebrows and waited for him to say something else.

“I don’t,” he repeated, angrier this time. “It’s other people who need help.”

“Why can’t you need help, as well?”

He scoffed at that. “I literally got everything I could ever want my whole life. I had everything going perfectly and I _still_ managed to fuck it all up. I don’t deserve help.”

She shook her head, eyes gentle. “Just because you’ve had certain privileges doesn’t mean you are incapable of suffering.”

“Fuck that,” he snapped. (She didn’t so much as flinch whenever he cursed, he had learned, which was a fact he took advantage of liberally.) “I don’t have the right to complain.”

“Everyone has the right to complain.”

That was the biggest load of bullshit he’d ever heard. “No,” he growled. “All I’ve ever been was cruel and selfish and on the wrong side of everything. Those sorts of people don’t deserve any help.”

“I think you’re being unfair to yourself.”

“The hell I am. I’ve been _awful_.” He imagined Potter’s hateful glares, and self-loathing pricked at Draco so sharply it nearly drew tears.

“What about your friends? They find you worthwhile. Surely their opinions matter.”

“No, I’ve been a dick to them, too.”

“Draco…”

“And even if that weren’t true! I was terrible to everyone outside my little circle—and for no other reason than just because I wanted to be.”

Draco was so upset he felt himself trembling.

After a moment, the mind healer said evenly, “Well, do you want to be that way now?”

“Haven’t you been listening? Of _course_ I don’t.”

Despite how he’d spat it at her, she only looked pleased. “Then that already shows how you’ve grown. Disliking what you’ve done in the past shows that you have changed as a person. It means you are better.”

He stewed, hating this, hating how wrong it was, hating how he was still trembling. Tears gathered in his eyes and threatened to overflow.

“If you wish to be a person whose values reflect your own,” she went on, “then you need only to act on them.”

That sounded beautiful.

But he didn’t deserve to be let off the hook that easily. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because—because—I’ve been too fucked up for it to matter. I had every chance to be better before, and I never was.”

“Well, I wholeheartedly disagree. But, how do you figure that?”

He folded his arms. “I had a happy childhood, with the most loving parents, and got everything I ever asked for. The fact I was so awful is my fault and mine alone.”

“There are more ways to damage a child than by not loving them.”

This reply threw him for such a loop that he didn’t even stop her when she continued. She proceeded to ask questions and cite anecdotes he’d told her, highlighting the way his family had acted, and lessons they had taught him. He sat, slack-jawed, as she talked.

The mind healer spoke about how much his father had stressed status, and moulded him into the same selfish, power-hungry, cruel paradigms to which all the Malfoys adhered. She also discussed the concept of “coercion”, and what that meant in the context of his life. How it had factored into the values and behaviours he had emulated—and how it had factored into the way he had behaved during the war.

“You were not convicted of war crimes for a _reason_ ,” she said. “They found you not guilty because you were a child, and because everything you did in the war was under duress.”

“That’s not true,” he replied, tears freely falling by now. “The reason I wasn’t convicted was that Harry Potter spoke for me.”

“He spoke for you because he knew the truth about you.”

 _That stuff wasn’t your fault, not really_ , Potter had whispered on the night Draco’d told him everything. _And you do deserve me to help you. And I promise, I don’t hate you._

Draco’s heart pounded erratically. The tears fell harder.

They talked about the boxes he’d been shoved into, of the ways he’d been pressed to believe certain things with, quote, “no hope for outside influence”.

“How can you expect a child to spontaneously believe otherwise?” she asked. “You were told to follow certain philosophies, by people whom you loved and trusted. Of course you listened to them.”

“I should have known not to,” he shot back. “The things they told me were terrible—evil, even. I should’ve known it was wrong and been different.”

“That’s unfair to expect. Especially from someone so young.”

“No, it’s not. Lots of people are raised fucked up ways and don’t get fucked up from it. Hell, Sirius Black was raised by my family, and he did everything to fight on the Light Side.”

“You cannot compare your personal journey to someone else’s,” she replied. “That way madness lies. Many factors influence who a person is and who they become. But if you get caught up in blaming yourself for factors outside of your control, you will distract yourself from progress, and will never be able to grow.”

He shook his head, crying like he always did when he talked about these things. “I should have been better,” he said. He thought of Potter again. About how he was raised by evil relatives who abused him, and how he still did everything he could to help people. Including people were just as rotten as those evil relatives.

“You were better,” she said. “For example, even after everything, you did not become a killer. Isn’t that right?”

His heart clenched. He didn’t speak.

“Even though it would have saved your family, you could not kill Albus Dumbledore.”

A racking sob stole any attempt at argument from his mouth. The mind healer went on. “When Harry Potter and his friends were captured, identifying them would have solved all of your problems. But you did not grab at this opportunity with both hands, as many others would have. On the contrary, you preferred to condemn yourself, rather than give them up to death. Tell me—why did you make that choice?”

It took him a while to get his breaths under control enough to utter an intelligible sound. But she waited, and let him. Finally, he replied, “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Will you allow me to suggest my theory?”

He shrugged.

“I think you did not wish give them up, because revealing them would doom them to a terrible fate. And no matter what anyone tried to make you into, you were not someone who would do such a thing.”

Draco crumpled in on himself, burying his face in his hands again. She continued to speak. “Moreover, I think that you wanted them to win the war. Because you knew that Muggles and Muggle-borns did not deserve to be harmed or subjugated. You acted the way you did because you knew what was right.”

He hiccuped, chest heaving. His ears roared. But he could not drown out her words, as she kept talking.

“You knew it was right so deeply, in fact, that you did it even though you knew you might die for your act of rebellion,” she said. “You knew you might never get to see their victory. And yet, even still, you did what you could, so that they would escape and defeat Voldemort.”

Draco yelped before he could stop himself. “Don’t—don’t say that name,” he demanded.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I did not mean to upset you. However, I’d like to remind you that fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

“So? I’ll freely admit that I’m fucking terrified of the thing itself. Don’t say that name.”

“All right. I won’t say it.” She looked at him expectantly. “But, what do you think of everything else I’ve said?”

He sighed, feeling pained and exhausted. “I don’t know.”

“Please think it over. And remind yourself of it, whenever you find yourself judging your past with too unforgiving an eye.”

He shrugged again, and nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled at him earnestly. In spite of everything, he couldn’t help but feel a bit better at that.

Suddenly, her expression turned thoughtful. “Also, I’ve thought of a good next step for us,” she said. “I think you should try to become comfortable with You-Know-Who’s name.”

He almost laughed. “Hell no. That’s impossible.”

“I know it might seem like an insurmountable task. But I assure you, you can do it. You faced this man, and you survived him. Why should he be allowed to have power over you after his death?”

“Because… I don’t know, he was fucking evil. I’m fine with never saying his name.”

She turned even more thoughtful, which Draco took as a bad sign. “Draco, there is something called Exposure Therapy. It entails gradually pushing yourself to confront a source of distress until you become more at ease with it. The process can be difficult, I admit; but, despite how intimidating it sounds, it can be extremely healing. I think we should give that a try.”

“That sounds awful. No thank you.”

She rolled her eyes in a way that almost seemed fond. “Let me ask you this: do you ever feel helpless? Unsafe?”

The mind healer didn’t need to ask. Of course she knew the answer was yes.

She continued: “Consider how it would feel to take back some power. To feel like you can say the name of the man who caused you such torment, and know he can’t hurt you anymore.”

Draco thought about how that would feel. He could almost imagine it. It sounded too good to be true.

“For homework this week, I would like for you to contemplate how you might go about increasing your tolerance of the name. Perhaps at first you might just think the name. And then, perhaps the next step would be to hear someone else say it. You can go as slowly as you’d like, but I want you to try. Come back to me and let me know what you’ve found. Do you think you can do that?”

Despite his misgivings, Draco felt himself nod.

“I would also like you to consider everything else we’ve discussed today. I think we’ve had quite a few breakthroughs.”

Again, despite his misgivings, Draco couldn’t help but agree.


	24. Chapter 24

**Draco**

Draco stared blankly at the floor as he walked back to his room after therapy. He felt too drained to lift his head. And, besides, he didn’t particularly fancy the thought of having to make eye contact with anyone along the way.

There was only one person whose presence would not drain him further—and whose presence, in fact, actually had the capacity to recharge him instead. That person was already in his room, and jumped up from the bed immediately when Draco opened the door.

Potter’s arms were open as he went to meet Draco, saying “Hey! Come here” without hesitation, seamlessly. Draco buried his face into Potter’s neck and sagged into the embrace.

“Want to talk?” asked Potter. Draco shook his head. His mind still whirled, and all that tethered him to the moment was Potter’s touch, Potter’s smell, Potter there with him.

They migrated onto the bed. Draco tugged on the blanket until Potter got the idea of what he wanted, and they crawled beneath together, cuddling under the covers.

Things were quiet for a while after that. Draco’s shaky breaths evened out as he felt Potter’s deep, sure ones against him. Potter’s fingers stroked over Draco’s back, over his hair. Draco’s heartbeat could not help but slow, and the hitherto unbearable tension seemed to seep out of his limbs and into the mattress. Draco’s mind swirled over everything he’d just discussed with the mind healer.

“Potter,” he said.

Potter let out a soft, inquisitive hum that almost sent Draco kissing him recklessly. Draco continued speaking instead.

“How can you treat me this way when we have the history we have?”

Potter inhaled sharply. His hands tightened around Draco. “Because it’s exactly that—history. Things are different now.”

“But how can you just forgive me for all of that?”

“You’ve shown me that I should.” The fingers of one hand played with the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck and nearly sent him into a full-body shiver. “There’s no use hating you for someone you aren’t anymore. And no use hating you for not being able to change the past, either. You’re different now, and that’s what matters.”

Draco shook his head, incredulous despite having actually expected Potter to say something like this. “How can you be so fucking _good_ all the time? Doesn’t it get tiring being Mr. Perfect Saviour every day?”

Potter laughed at that, sounding slightly uncomfortable with the words. “Don’t tell me you’ve been reading articles about me in Witch Weekly.”

Draco knew Potter meant it as a joke, and thus resolutely did not reply that he had indeed read every article they’d ever run about Potter, at least twice. “No. I don’t need a magazine to tell me what a bleeding heart do-gooder you are. Merlin, you’re so saccharine you make my teeth rot.”

“Oh, stop. It’s just common sense. I just don’t see the point of going around hating people for no reason. We literally fought a war to prove that was a shit thing to do.”

“Exactly—a war that I was literally on the wrong side of.”

“No,” Potter said, so matter-of-factly that it could have been any banal statement of truth. “You were confused, and you had no choice.”

“How can you say that? You saw how—”

“Malfoy, you know better than anyone that whatever you’re about to say isn’t true.”

Draco’s words dried up. Even though Draco wanted to insist that Potter was incorrect, that Draco didn’t deserve anyone making excuses for him, it was hard to fight back against Potter when he got that determined timbre in his voice. Draco felt tears, already so close to the surface since his therapy appointment, prickle in his eyes again.

“What I saw was you terrified out of your mind the whole time,” Potter went on. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s me, because I saw how miserable and trapped you were, and I was so caught up in blind hatred that I didn’t stop to think. I was just so angry, and I didn’t have a shred of empathy or a shred of critical thinking. It seems so obvious now. Hell, it’s not like someone has a breakdown at the thought of killing another person because they _want_ to kill them.”

Draco shuddered, wanting the earth to swallow him whole at the reminder of sixth year. But Potter kept speaking: “If I could go back in time, I would just talk to you. At any point. I’d try to comfort you, and I’d let you know that there were other options—like Dumbledore tried to do on the Astronomy Tower.”

“Potter…”

“And I know you would’ve joined our side. I _know_ it, like I know I have ten fingers and ten toes.”

Draco wondered if he’d _ever_ run out of tears, or if he’d keep making a blubbering fool of himself every time he had these sorts of conversations. In any case, if he might ever learn to curb his crying, today was clearly not that day. “How can you possibly think that?” he asked as his chest heaved. “Maybe I’d just break your nose again, or try another Cruciatus, or—”

“I know because I know you, all right? Anyway, sure, maybe you’d lash out for a while, but it’s nothing I couldn’t handle. And it would be worth it. You’d have joined us way earlier, and saved everyone a lot of trouble and heartache.”

There were many aspects of this pronouncement that Draco took issue with. He chose the one that made the least grammatical sense, first: “What do you mean ‘earlier’? I _never_ joined your lot.”

“Of course you did. By the end of everything, it was clear whose side you were really on. It doesn’t matter who you were standing next to. When it came down to it, I knew where your priorities were.”

Draco let out a pathetic whimper and squeezed Potter with all his might, wanting to disappear.

“Shhhh. It’s okay. Everything’s okay now.”

Draco kept crying. Potter stroked Draco’s back in time with his whispers. His gentle hushing should have felt humiliating, but instead it flooded Draco with his bodyweight in relief.

“You really are unfairly good all the time,” Draco managed to say. “Did you know that?” He’d meant it in a teasing way, but it came out totally serious. And incredibly wet with tears.

“Come on. I figured you of all people wouldn’t be impressed by anything I do.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m impressed by everything you do.”

The words left his mouth before his filter could scream that they should never see the light of day. Draco wanted to drop dead. He couldn’t believe he’d just… fucking…

Potter was silent above him.

Draco’s heart skittered around in his ribcage. He blurted out his next words just to change the subject. “I’m thinking about this stuff because of my appointment tonight.”

Potter cleared his throat, and went along with the new topic. “Oh really? What did you talk about?”

“About the war. And life.”

The head resting atop Draco’s nodded along with what he said. Draco went on. “I want to be better, Potter.”

“You already are.”

Draco inhaled deeply. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

Draco sincerely doubted the possibility of that.

They lay in silence for a while. Draco’s tears finally abated, and his breathing slowed to normal. He contemplated falling asleep.

In the process of considering this, however, he remembered something else from his meeting. “Apparently the insomnia was magical,” he said suddenly.

That seemed to throw Potter. “What? What do you mean?”

“Like, I was able to survive because my magic got involved. Apparently it went into overdrive to keep me alive when I wasn’t sleeping, and that’s how I lasted so long.”

“Wow. That’s insane.”

“I know.”

And he almost told Potter the rest about the magical theory, right there, too. About how his magic had identified Potter as safe, and his subconscious knew that he could let go around him.

But, it dawned on him, a moment before it was too late, why such a thing would be dangerous.

It was too close to the truth of how he really felt about Potter. How it wasn’t a coincidence that he felt so safe and whole in Potter’s arms—how it actually indicated something quite important about Draco’s conscious feelings toward him, as well.

Plus, as much as a small part of him still held onto the pipe dream that Potter might one day requite his feelings, such a reality was, as yet, in no way on the horizon. Divulging the truth about his magical condition would spoil any potential, by ruining Potter’s perception of Draco forever.

The Saviour could never requite Draco’s feelings while Draco was still one of his many damsels in distress (Theo was a tosser for putting that term in his head… but fuck if it wasn’t accurate). Saying that Draco’s body, on the verge of death, had recognised Potter as a guardian, and determined that his presence allowed Draco to slip into vulnerability and recharge his magic… why, that was about as pathetically damsel in distress-y as it got. And of all the times that Draco could accidentally indicate to Potter that he harboured certain affections or desires, it was definitely not then, in this way, under such a circumstance.

Draco would rather die than do that.

So, he chose to refocus the conversation elsewhere, on something more productive. “Then we were talking about ways to make me feel safer, so I could get better without needing you. And she… she gave me an assignment.”

“An assignment?”

The mind healer had told him increasing his comfort with the name would help Draco feel stronger, less vulnerable, less helpless, less scared. If he wanted a shot at healing past his need for Potter’s constant protection, then this was his best plan.

If it worked, he would be self-sufficient. Maybe then, Potter could see that he wasn’t weak. Maybe Potter could finally see them on equal footing.

And maybe Draco would actually feel like they were, too.

“Yeah,” said Draco. “She wants me to try to…” He swallowed hard. “To get comfortable with the name of the Dark Lord.”

“Oh.” Potter was quiet for a few moments. Then, he said, “Well, you know how I feel about that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“He was just a narcissistic madman who got a kick out of hurting people. I don’t understand why everyone gives him enough respect to be scared of his stupid nickname. Even after everything—even after how hard we worked to get rid of him—people still…”

“I know,” Draco said. Potter’s voice had risen, and his body had tensed with his indignation. Draco rubbed his nose against Potter’s chest. “I can’t help being scared. But it’s not like I _want_ to be.”

Potter let out a long breath. “Right. Yes, I suppose that’s true. Well… okay, good.”

“So, yeah. She thought if I could get more comfortable with it, things would get better.”

“Well, that sounds good to me. I’m all for it.”

Draco smiled to himself. “Do you think you could try to help me get comfortable with it?”

“Oh. Sure. Er, how do you figure?”

He remembered sitting with Potter the night of that nightmare, and Potter had said the name. Draco had flinched, but he’d survived, and got over it better than he even had when the mind healer had said it tonight. “I don’t know. Maybe you can say it? And I’ll try not to have a panic attack?”

“All right.” Potter’s hand returned to gently stroking Draco’s back. “Well, er, if you do have one, I’m here.”

Indeed he was. Even as Draco’s heart began to hammer in anticipation for Potter to speak the horrible name, Draco was endlessly relieved to remind himself who he had with him.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived—the Boy Who Killed The Dark Lord Forever. If anyone had a right to say that name, it was him. And nothing bad could happen, because he was here.

“You ready?” Potter asked.

Draco buried his face against Potter, braced himself, and nodded.

Potter tilted his head and whispered above Draco’s ear, “Voldemort.”

Draco jerked, but Potter’s arms held onto him firmly. He struggled to breathe past the weight in his lungs.

“How was that?” Potter asked.

He heard screams echo in his brain. He felt the phantom heat of a Crucio lick his skin. He saw the faces of lifeless bodies curled in anguish from—

“It’s okay. You’re all right.” Potter’s voice reached him past the noise. Draco realised that he felt himself shaking rather hard. But, Potter’s arms were holding him so tightly that they mostly absorbed the movement. “I’ve got you.”

Slowly, Draco nodded. “Okay,” he said.

“So, how was it?”

“Shitty. But… manageable.”

Potter laughed softly. “All right. Want to try again?”

Reluctantly, Draco agreed.

He was ready for it this time. Potter said “Voldemort” and it still hurt, like a light Cruciatus. But he clutched at Potter and breathed him in, and he managed to contain the whimper that had doubtlessly escaped the first time.

“You’re doing such a good job,” Potter whispered. Draco would feel embarrassed at that if he didn’t feel such a surge of warmth.

They did it a few more times. After a while, Draco stopped feeling the need to brace himself. He let the sound wash over him, and focused on the safety and security he felt with Potter there.

“How are you doing?” Potter asked eventually.

Draco nodded, feeling too fragile to speak.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Potter said. “I’m really prou—that is, I’m happy to see you’ve made progress. I think this assignment was a really good idea.”

Draco nodded again. His heartbeat was still not back to normal.

“What do you want now?”

Draco could barely process the question. He was still trying to shake the image of red eyes staring at him past Draco’s own closed eyelids.

“Malfoy,” Potter said. Draco shook his head to hear the sound of Potter’s voice instead of the screaming ones in his mind. “I need you to focus on me. Here and now. Not on your memories. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Draco breathed, and tried to nod.

“I think we should do some damage control.”

Ah, yes. That sounded nice.

“What do you think? Should we—”

Draco surged up and kissed him. Potter froze for a fraction of a second, and then kissed back fervently.

He let the feeling of Potter’s lips, of his tongue, of his body, clear the cobwebs in Draco’s brain and help him sink into sunlight and security. He let the pain of the terrible name and the terrible memories slip away, and be replaced by the all-consuming amazement at Potter’s touch.

Draco adored Potter, he thought blindly, soaking up the feeling of the other boy with a dull sort of ache. He needed Potter. He wanted Potter. And he had him, sort of. It may never be enough, but it was something.

Potter’s hands scrambled at Draco, one squeezing around his waist and the other holding him on the side of the head. Draco licked inside Potter’s mouth, and Potter opened his mouth for it at once. If Draco let himself believe, he could swear he even heard Potter moan.

They kissed for what could have been minutes and could have been hours. Their shirts ended up somewhere, but Draco wasn’t sure exactly where, and couldn’t be arsed to check. He and Potter lay on the bed, hands exploring each others backs, chests, arms, hair. Mouths sucking on tongues, lips, necks.

There was no feeling but Safe, no feeling but Warm, no feeling but Good. Time dissolved until it was just the two of them, kissing each other until they were too both spent to feel anything but content and sleepy. When that happened, they didn’t even let go of each other, just held on and let themselves drift off in their little cocoon of limbs and sheets.

If this would his reward for hearing Potter say the name of the Dark Lord, then Draco decided he might get used to it more easily than he’d thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm sorry it's taking me longer than usual to update. I'm putting this note here to explain that life is a little hectic right now, but I assure you I am not dead, and I am not taking a break from this story whatsoever. I promise I will be back with an update very soon!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for the kind words so many of you have sent my way, saying you enjoy my story and want me to update. It means the world and beyond to me. This chapter is dedicated to all of you.
> 
> I'm so sorry about how long it's taken for an update. But I'm here, and I promise, I want to keep giving you things you enjoy. <3

**Harry**

Harry suggested they begin revising together, starting the very next day.

He knew he probably looked ridiculous, wanting to start preparing for exams so early, especially when he usually had quite a habit of doing the opposite of that. But, if Malfoy wasn’t going to comment on the strangeness or the out-of-character-ness, then Harry wasn’t going to bother trying to curb his own urging.

The fact was, he was sort of desperate to spend more time with Malfoy.

It was for the greater good, of course. Harry reminded himself of this constantly. It wasn’t so terrible for him to push for their constant companionship, because this was all part of Hermione’s masterplan to make things less confusing. At least, that was what Harry kept insisting in his head.

After all, he could definitely _do_ with something to make things less confusing; it seemed like Harry struggled to hold onto logic wherever Malfoy was concerned. Despite his common sense, Harry kept slipping into familiarity with him; he almost said overly-affectionate things, with increasing frequency, and thus it was a constant battle to remind himself to tone it down and return the conversation to business matters.

Consequently, he was anxious to spend more time with Malfoy outside of their usual arrangement. Clearly the way things currently stood was an issue, and made Harry prone to think of Malfoy in inappropriate ways. For example, with his tongue in Malfoy’s mouth and his hands groping Malfoy’s naked torso, it was dangerously easy to get carried away and get things muddled in his head. And when Malfoy talked about his fears and beliefs and experiences while wrapped in the tight circle of Harry's arms, it was mesmerisingly tempting to feel emotions Harry knew he shouldn’t. He almost blurted out words he knew he’d regret at least a hundred times each night.

He hoped that casual hangouts and easy smalltalk would cure his confusion. Therefore, he could not push for it fast enough.

Still, despite this logical motive for wanting to spend time with Malfoy, Harry couldn’t quite manage to convince himself that these were his intentions. Most of the time, he found himself wishing for Malfoy’s company for reasons that did not feel connected to Hermione’s plan at all. Which was quite an issue. But, he was sure it would work out: any day now, certainly, he would start seeing Malfoy as a simple bloke who didn’t hypnotise Harry with his lips or make Harry want to bend him over every flat surface available and touch him til Malfoy came.

Unfortunately, this shift had not occurred yet. On the contrary, it distinctly felt like spending time in close quarters with the Slytherin was making Harry _more_ enthralled, and _more_ confused.

But, he assured himself that this was normal. That he could handle the setbacks. He reasoned that this was just happening because these sorts of things tended to get worse before they got better.

* * * * *

They began revising, as they’d discussed. It was a Friday, so they met up in Malfoy’s room after class; there, they drafted their outlines together for what they’d have to review. Harry had never considered such a step before, but Malfoy had suggested it—he was rather good at academia, Harry reflected. And, when they worked on creating the outlines, Malfoy only teased him a few times for forgetting about whole modules of the curricula.

After a while, they had to break, because Harry had Quidditch practice.

He left his school supplies on Malfoy’s desk, because they planned to keep working when Harry got back. Then, he stood up to leave.

Suddenly, Harry found himself speaking, though he hadn’t planned on making any further conversation before his exit. “Why don’t you play Quidditch this year?”

Malfoy was silent for a moment, seeming surprised by the question. “I do sometimes. Whenever enough students are around to organise something.”

“I mean, with the Slytherin team. Every week, like me.”

“We’re not allowed to play on our teams. You know that.”

It was true, that eighth years weren’t allowed to compete on their house Quidditch teams. But, that hadn’t meant Harry couldn’t play at all. He joined in everything but the official matches, and still participated in Gryffindor’s practices and pickup games. “That’s just for the competitions. I still play unofficially. You could, too.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Potter, no one else views school policy as a light suggestion, or rule-breaking as a matter of course, like you do. And no other house would be as keen to accept such a prospect as foolhardy Gryffindors.” He snorted at the idea. Then he shook his head, turning more serious. “So, no. Joining the Slytherin team was never an option for me.”

“Gryffindors care about having fun,” Harry argued. “They’d see no reason to leave anyone out if it’s a special case like this.”

“Well, you’re used to being a special case, aren’t you?”

Despite the words, Malfoy clearly wasn’t saying it as an insult. It almost sounded sad.

Harry opened his mouth before he’d even run the idea past his brain. Without stopping to think a moment more, he asked, “Do you want to come play with the Gryffindor team tonight?”

Malfoy’s eyes went as wide as Harry’d ever seen them. “Don’t be silly.”

“It’s not silly. There’s no reason why you couldn’t.”

“Of course there is. Firstly, to put it mildly, I doubt people would want me there very much.”

Now that Harry had started trying to convince Malfoy to join him, he couldn’t stop. He felt himself grow increasingly enthusiastic and confident in the proposition. “Don’t worry, it’s all informal. They’ve no cause to mind mixing houses.” If Harry was allowed to unofficially join in on those, then surely any other non-competing student would be, too.

“No, I meant… I don’t think they’d want _me_ there,” Malfoy clarified.

Oh.

The true meaning of Malfoy’s words sank in now.

“That’s bullshit,” Harry said. He clenched his fists; indignation at the injustice of it rose in him. “They don’t have the right to keep you out. They don’t know anything about you.”

“Potter, as much as I love seeing you righteously angry on my behalf, it’s truly fine. I’m quite rusty, anyway; I don't practise very much nowadays.”

“That’s exactly why you should play! You love Quidditch!”

“It’s really okay. I’m perfectly content staying indoors.”

“No, it’s not okay! We fought a bloody war so people could get on with their lives and do what makes them happy.”

“Oh, please. It’s just Quidditch. It really doesn’t matter.”

Harry shook his head, chest heaving as he looked at the other boy. He knew Malfoy well enough by now to know how much he wanted to agree. Harry could see it in his eyes, could hear it in the half-hearted way he tried to wave off the offer, could find it plainly in the types of arguments Malfoy gave to the contrary. And Harry would be damned if he let anyone try to get in the way of Malfoy’s happiness.

With that, Harry made up his mind. “If anyone gives you trouble, they’ll have to go through me. Come on. You’re joining.”

An expression passed over Malfoy’s face that Harry couldn’t read.

Then, Malfoy said simply, “All right.”

He stood up and began gathering his things. Harry went to his room to change into his Quidditch gear, and when Malfoy met him in the common room a few minutes later, he had done so, too.

Together, they went down to the pitch.

When they arrived, Harry strode confidently toward the other players, with Malfoy trailing tentatively behind him as they got close. “I want Malfoy to join us,” he explained breezily, his nonchalance almost daring anyone to try and make a fuss about it. “Informally, just like me. That all right with everyone?”

People exchanged looks with each other cautiously, and eyed Malfoy up and down. Harry could feel nerves radiating off of Malfoy’s body, and he stepped closer to the Slytherin, both reassuringly and protectively.

The students on the team this year were all younger than Harry, and he was not as friendly with them off the pitch. Dean had not come back to school after the war, and neither had Ginny, as she was off playing professionally with the Holyhead Harpies. The Quidditch team now consisted of members Harry had more of a work-only relationship with, instead. He hoped this would work to his advantage right now, as people might be less likely to want to start an argument with him.

And, it looked like he was right. Demelza Robins nodded slowly first, and then so did Jimmy Peakes, and then so did everyone. “If Harry’s fine with it, so am I,” said Demelza.

“Yeah. And Malfoy’s not so bad on a broom, either,” said Jimmy, and that seemed to end the discussion.

Harry thanked his lucky stars for the one-track mindedness of Quidditch players.

So, they started practice. They huddled to discuss their plan, and then took off into the air, with Malfoy absorbed into the group as a slightly uncertain but nevertheless dedicated new recruit.

Of course, the tension amongst the team didn’t dissipate right away. Even if he hadn’t been Draco Malfoy, he was still an outsider. And his being their past rival—and a former Death Eater, at that—certainly did not help them warm up to him any quicker.

But, though the other players were slightly standoffish at first, the brilliant thing about Quidditch was that it truly brought a team together. When you were flying, everything that made you different from one another went away. You were just people, in the air, soaring at incredible speeds, all working toward the same goal.

And the team didn’t ignore Malfoy, either. Though they seemed wary of him in the beginning, the members grew more and more comfortable making passes to him, or shouting advice his way, or incorporating him into their complicated manoeuvres. In a relatively short time, Malfoy seemed to fit right in, like he’d always been there and was always meant to be. Sort of exactly like he’d done in Harry’s life in general.

Harry looked on, pride and admiration swelling in his chest. He never ceased to be amazed by that boy.

Plus, Draco Malfoy on a broom was a sight to behold. He swirled and dove in the air, graceful as a bird, spirited and passionate. It did strange and complicated things to Harry’s stomach when he watched. And yet, he could not take his eyes away.

When they landed, Malfoy was covered in sweat and glowing with life. He grinned broadly, grey eyes sparkling. He was so beautiful that Harry very nearly dipped him like a ballerina and snogged him in front of everyone.

He settled for making up a nerve-related excuse to kiss him a few minutes later, when they were out of the cold and away from witnesses. He felt more than slightly guilty for the lie and for the ulterior motive, but the kiss he achieved was the only thing that tethered Harry to his sanity.

Unfortunately, this was also getting to be more and more of an issue these days. Harry felt the overpowering urge to kiss Malfoy, or to touch him somehow, with distressing regularity. He knew he should probably be trying to dial it back, but Malfoy was so intoxicating that it was hard to think clearly—which was exactly why Harry hoped Hermione’s plan would start working, any minute now.

After Quidditch, the two of them went back to the eighth year wing and took turns showering (because they both used Malfoy’s soap, and even Harry wasn’t reckless enough to suggest they shower together). When they had both finished and landed back in Malfoy’s room, Malfoy didn’t bother putting on more than just his pants, and did the rest of their revising plan clothed thusly until bedtime.

Harry was endlessly grateful that Malfoy was so good at this sort of academic thing, because he effortlessly led the way while Harry’s brain stuttered along, largely incapacitated now that Malfoy’s barely-clothed body was _right there_.

He was also endlessly grateful that Malfoy was distracted by reading over their notes, so that Harry could ogle him as much as his shame permitted, without Malfoy catching him doing it.

And when it was time for sleep, they crawled under the covers, and Harry cradled Malfoy in his arms, and whispered “Voldemort” a few times in his ear. Malfoy started out by shaking hard and letting out involuntary yelps of distress. But, they kept at it until that all subsided. Then, they kissed languidly until the shaking turned into a different sort altogether.

The lights were off, and their hands were idly stroking each others’ bare skin, and Harry could think only of good things, and turned his brain off to anything else.

* * * * *

In the morning, the two of them parted to join their friends for breakfast at their respective tables. When Harry sat down next to Hermione, she was giving him looks that made him feel almost naked under her probing stare.

“What?” he asked, when it became clear she would not let up. “Have I got something on my face?”

He’d meant it as a joke. But he nearly smacked his own forehead with an exasperated palm when she replied, “As a matter of fact, yes. You’ve got a smile I’d be able to read from a thousand miles away.”

“Hermione,” he whined. “I do not.”

“How are things going between you two now? Any new developments?”

He wanted to reject the question out of hand. But, then he realised he had an answer he could feel proud of. “Well, actually, yes,” he said, sitting up straighter. “We’ve started revising together.”

Hermione’s self-satisfied air only grew at this. “Oh, really? And how’s that going?”

“All right, I suppose. He’s really good at this sort of thing. So, if nothing else, I’ll probably do way better on my exams now.”

“Harry, as much as you know I’m thrilled to hear of your plans to excel in exams, you must know that’s not what I’m asking about.”

“Yeah, well.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think anything’s changed yet. But—but I’m trying! Like, I sort of took the liberty of adding him to the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

He was glad Hermione had not managed to finish raising her glass to her mouth to drink, because he was suddenly certain she would have choked if she had. “Oh?” she asked delicately after a moment, voice slightly strained from her obvious effort not to squeak. “How did that happen?”

“Well, he loves Quidditch. And he thought he couldn’t play, which was bullshit, so I brought him along with me, and it was every bit as brilliant as I thought it’d be. And everyone accepted him, just like they should have.”

He was rambling sappily again, as he had a tendency to do when he talked about Malfoy. He added quickly, “And we’re already revising together, so it’s convenient if we have the same Quidditch schedule. Plus, now this will speed up the process of your plan.”

“My plan?”

“Yeah. Your plan. To make me less confused around him.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. That plan.” She smiled to herself, and then smiled more brightly at him. “You’re right, Harry. I think sharing your absolute favourite pastime together—especially when it results in spending even _more_ of your time in each other’s company—is an excellent way to advance my plan. I think your feelings for him will become clear to you in no time. Perhaps, any minute now, even.”

She kept smiling at him. Which was nice, but when it wore on, and combined with her looking at him as though she expected him to add something insightful, it got sort of strange.

“Er, good to know,” he said encouragingly.

She rolled her eyes. “So, when are you two meeting up next?”

“Not sure. Probably this evening, I guess.”

“Well, I’m going to head to the library after I leave here. Perhaps you two can join me?”

“Really? You want that?”

“Of course, Harry.” She looked at him, her brown eyes kind and sincere. Then, they twinkled as she added, “After all, I can’t let the Quidditch team get so far ahead of me on this, now can I?”

He ducked his head, feeling his cheeks heat, and nodded.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Breakfast at the Slytherin table was pleasant and overall unassuming. Draco and Pansy chatted idly about inconsequential fluff for nearly half an hour before she brought anything up about The Subject.

Eventually, though, she asked, “So, how are things with your boy?” and set the hairs on Draco’s neck standing on end.

“He’s not ‘my boy’, for starters,” Draco replied, fingers tensing around his fork.

“Right, of course, silly me. How are things with _the_ boy, then?”

“Nothing special,” Draco said, trying to relax his muscles. This girl would make him go grey by his twenties, surely. “We’ve started revising together. And we played Quidditch yesterday. So, that was nice.”

“Oh, Draco,” she said, looking at him with eyes suddenly bright and full of emotion. “You’re positively gone for him.”

He coughed, hard and loudly. “Stop. No I’m not.” He glanced up to make sure no one was listening. No one else was, except for Theo, two seats away. He locked eyes with Draco and gave a subtle smile in acknowledgement, which made Draco flush and turn back to Pansy.

She just laughed, as though she thought Draco’s behaviour hilarious. But, mercifully, she finally decided changed the subject.

When they packed up and headed out of the Great Hall, Potter caught up with him.

“Hey,” he said, announcing his presence with just enough warning for Draco to look up, before Potter laid a hand on Draco’s arm.

Draco had already stopped walking the moment he’d heard Potter’s voice, but Potter kept his hand there for a few seconds longer than necessary, as though he didn’t even realise he was doing it. “Hermione is going to the library, and asked if we wanted to join.”

Even though Potter had mentioned this as a possibility before, it surprised Draco all the same. “Both of us? She said that?”

“Yeah. What do you think?

“I… yes. Okay. That sounds nice.”

“Brilliant. I’ll be up in a bit to grab my books, and we can go down together.”

Draco nodded, at a loss to do anything else. With that, Potter turned around and went back to Granger, leaving Draco stunned and full of many twisting feelings in his stomach.

“Oh, yes you absolutely _are_ ,” Pansy whispered smugly at his side.

He’d shove her into a stone wall if he could remember how to use his limbs.

* * * * *

**Harry**

They made it to the library, and found Hermione at one of the tables, having spread various books and parchment out so no other seats would be taken.

“Hey, Hermione,” Harry greeted softly as he approached, pulling out one of the chairs and plopping down.

After a few moments, he realised that Malfoy had not sat down yet. Harry looked up, and saw him standing awkwardly next to the table, looking stiff and troubled.

“Er,” Malfoy said. “Hello, Granger.”

“Hello,” Hermione replied, looking up at him calmly, if not reservedly.

Malfoy shifted on his feet, seeming unsure of himself like Harry had seen many times before. Harry didn't know what was going on, but his heart panged for him all the same. He wanted to take his hand, but he felt like that wasn’t what Malfoy wanted right now.

A moment of silence passed; Malfoy seemed to be debating with himself in his head. Evidently, he finally decided to just _fuck it,_ because he suddenly said in a rush, “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted over the years. For the things I’ve said to you and the things I’ve done. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I wish for you to know how sincerely I regret it. And I’d like to express, though you’ve no reason to believe it, that I do not hold the same beliefs I did when I behaved in such ways.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment. Harry had no idea what she was thinking, but he was desperate to grab Malfoy and cradle him to his chest and kiss his forehead, their public location be damned.

Slowly and carefully, Hermione replied, “Thank you for saying that. I accept your apology. And, as a matter of fact, I do believe it. I look forward to getting to know you better.” With that, she held out her hand.

Malfoy visibly sagged in relief. Though his face remained more than slightly incredulous, he held out his hand, and they shook.

Harry watched them, in awe, as though this were a dream.

Here was Draco Malfoy—both as the multi-pronged, often loathsome boy of the past, and also as the complex and special person he was to Harry now. And, here was Hermione Granger—both as the person who’d always stood in opposition to Malfoy, and also as one of Harry’s best friends in the world. Now the two of them were shaking hands, right in front of Harry's eyes.

And, though she didn’t say it, Harry knew the handshake had been Hermione’s final test. A test to see how he’d react to the prospect of shaking hands with a Muggle-born. And Malfoy had passed it without hesitation.

When Malfoy sat down, Harry hooked his foot behind Malfoy’s leg. Malfoy looked at him, and Harry gave him a smile that he hoped conveyed even a fraction of the intense admiration Harry poured into it.


	26. Chapter 26

**Harry**

The next few days quickly became a swirling blur of spending time with Malfoy.

It was the last week of class for the term, and it felt like almost every moment of Harry’s time was consumed by Malfoy’s presence. Harry figured it was bound to get old eventually, and he was fully banking on the idea they’d get tired of each other soon. But, that didn’t seem to be happening anywhere on the horizon.

When they weren’t in class, they would join up and revise together. Or, just as likely, they’d lounge together in each other’s bedrooms, or in the eighth year common room, or in the kitchens when they made pilgrimages for snacks. Or they’d play Quidditch outdoors, or Exploding Snap indoors (or Malfoy would teach Harry new Wizarding card games that Harry hadn’t learned in his time in Gryffindor Tower or the Burrow).

In the evenings, they would brush their teeth side-by-side—in a way that felt heart-twistingly domestic to Harry, if he was honest. And despite how Malfoy started off complaining at the idea of Harry seeing him with toothpaste dribbling from his mouth, he was soon bumping Harry’s hip with his own, and making faces at him in the mirror, and giggling when they fought over the sink. And that made Harry’s heart twist impossibly further.

If that weren’t all enough—as though his time with Malfoy weren’t already ruining Harry from the inside out—when Harry showered, Malfoy would sit on the ledge by the sink and quiz Harry on Potions or Herbology terms. And when Malfoy showered, Harry would do the same for him. Then, he’d pretend to look away when Malfoy stepped out with a towel slung low on his hips, but he actually did not look away at all.

So, yes. All in all, things were going well. They were enjoyable, to say the least. And Harry was quickly getting lost in the splendor of it all.

But, Harry couldn’t quite say the situation was productive. His feelings were only seeming to grow so far, instead of abate like they were supposed to.

Hermione kept smiling knowingly at him whenever he saw her, but Harry just rolled his eyes in response. Yes, he supposed her plan was still coming along smoothly. But he wasn’t quite sure what she thought was worth any sort of fuss. It wasn’t like he’d had a grand breakthrough yet. If anything, he only felt like he was drowning in his foolish emotions more.

But, he kept going with the current state of things. He told himself this was because he was dedicated to the plan, of getting his obsession with Malfoy under control. But the truth of the matter was, Harry kept going like this because he was powerless not to.

* * * * *

On Monday afternoon, Harry and Malfoy were working in Malfoy’s room. Harry had just finished slaving over notes on a particularly dense chapter of Herbology, when the Slytherin suddenly spoke.

“Potter,” he said out of the blue, making Harry look up at him from where he sat on the floor. “Why did you come back to school?”

“What?” Harry asked, thrown by the question.

“Why did you come back? For eighth year.” Malfoy pushed his own book to the side and scooted closer to the edge of the bed to stare at Harry. “You hate revising, and homework, and basically everything that comes with school. And I know the great Saviour of the World doesn’t need a school certification to get just about any job he could possibly want. So, why put yourself through another year of all this?”

Harry considered the question, feeling almost disoriented by the newness of the idea. Malfoy’s argument made good sense, though. True, Harry’d always hated the idea of special treatment, and the _Saviour_ comment bothered him, as usual. But he supposed Malfoy had a point about hating to revise.

“I dunno,” he said. Honestly, he’d never really thought about this before. Returning to Hogwarts had always been a no-brainer for him. “I just couldn’t imagine not coming back, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hogwarts is home to me,” he replied. And it was true. Near-constant mortal peril aside, this had been the first place that had made him feel genuinely good about himself, and it had remained a constant refuge for him ever since. This was, quite simply, where he belonged. “It was the first place that ever made me feel safe, and happy. And it gave me people who were nice to me—who loved me, even. And, I dunno, gave me a life I actually wanted.”

He shook his head, feeling strange to say this out loud. He concluded, with a shrugged, “I just want to enjoy this place long as I can.” Then he looked down at his lap, fiddling with the feather of his quill awkwardly. He only broke out of his reverie when he heard Malfoy move from the bed.

The Slytherin walked over and promptly dropped to the ground next to Harry. The next thing Harry knew, Malfoy was reaching out and tilting Harry’s chin up with his hand.

Malfoy pressed their lips together before Harry could start to ask why. Harry’s eyelids drifted shut of their own accord. And for the next few minutes, Harry forgot about everything else.

Malfoy kissed him tenderly, and thoroughly. He kept his hand on Harry’s cheek, while he seized Harry’s bottom lip and sucked on it hard. Harry shivered involuntarily. He felt dizzy with it, and he kissed back with a fire deep in his gut that meant only madness. It was all he could do to try and keep his breathing as slow and even as Malfoy’s.

Finally, their lips separated. When Harry opened his eyes, he saw the blond looking at him, grey gaze alight with emotion. Malfoy looked like he wanted to say something—perhaps very many things. But eventually, he just whispered softly, “I’ll let you get back to your work, then.”

With that, he moved away, climbing back onto the bed and returning to pore over his own books and parchments.

Harry felt partially lightheaded for the rest of the day.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco managed to hold off asking about it for a few hours.

He knew it made Potter upset to talk about this stuff, so he’d tried to keep his questions to himself. Tried to distract Potter, and to keep things light and casual, as much as he could. But, Draco had been unable to stop thinking about it, and he could no longer push down the urge to bring it up again.

So that evening, when he was sitting on the mirror ledge while Potter showered, he put down the flashcards he’d been quizzing Potter with and asked abruptly, “Was Hogwarts really the first place that made you feel safe and loved?”

“Er, yeah,” Potter replied, not even pausing to think about it. “Of course it was. Why?”

“But… but how can that be? People gave you hell here. Like, daily.”

Indeed, Draco knew that his own assertion was true. It had taken a while for him to come to terms with this fact; he’d spent his school years furious at Potter’s every breath, thinking the Chosen One got everything handed to him on a silver platter. But, recently, he’d had ample time to contemplate how things had been from Potter’s perspective. And, to be honest, it sounded like right shit most of the time.

At this, Potter actually laughed. “Look, I don’t know if this somehow hasn’t been clear to you, but Hogwarts is still head-and-shoulders above where I grew up. I mean, Merlin, my relatives used to treat me like their live-in slave. And that was when they were actually being nice to me.”

 _What_? “What are you talking about? How the hell was that being nice to you?”

“Y’know,” he said. “When they got upset, it was worse.”

“How could it possibly get worse?” Draco asked, appalled. It was a genuinely stupid question, a large part of him knew. But he had to believe that treating Potter as a neglected child servant was the lowest his relatives could sink. Draco didn’t want to let himself consider how much worse it could truly have gotten for Potter; he didn’t know if he’d be able to handle the image.

Potter did not seem to possess the same worries, however. He said calmly, “Like... one time when I was twelve, my aunt and uncle locked me in a room for three days straight and barely fed me the whole time. And I mean, I think they would’ve kept me like that all summer, but Ron and his brothers came in the middle of the night and busted the bars on my window—”

“Wait!” Draco yelped. He hadn’t been ready for any of that, and his heart had begun to race at the imagery in a way he hadn’t braced himself for. “I… I’m sorry. I need a time-out.” He took a shaking breath. “I’m… it’s really hard for me to hear that about you.”

That didn’t even begin to describe it. Hearing those things about Potter’s childhood made Draco want to scream and never stop.

“Well, it was no walk in the park for me, either,” Potter replied, with a shrug in his voice. Draco had no idea how he could possibly be so nonchalant about this. And his nonchalance just made it all impossibly worse. “But I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

“No, don’t be _sorry_!” Draco insisted, growing more disturbed at the apology. “I _want_ you to tell me stuff. I just… need to be prepared, I suppose. So I’ll be less tempted to throw things and punch a wall.”

He didn’t even attempt to add a humorous tone when he said it. Nothing could be less funny than this conversation.

“Oh. Er… all right,” was the slow reply.

Potter said it stiltedly, confusedly. But under it, Draco could detect, Potter sounded almost pleased to hear the sentiment.

A minute passed in which neither of them spoke, the only sound in the room the spray of the shower. Draco’s distress grew, and grew, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

The next thing he knew, he was standing up from his seat on the ledge. “Potter,” he said. “I really want to kiss you now.”

The sound of multiple bottles falling onto the tile greeted Draco’s words.

“You… what did you say?” Potter asked after a moment.

“I want to kiss you. Right now. Please. Can I?”

For a few seconds, there was no answer. Draco was about to start wringing his hands when Potter finally replied, “I mean, I’m sort of naked.”

A hysterical laugh bubbled out of Draco’s throat. “I won’t look,” he said. “You can hold up the curtain. And I’ll close my eyes. Please. I just… I really want to talk to you about these things, because they are important. But I need to kiss you right now.”

Earlier, when Potter had made that first comment about Hogwarts being his one happy place, Draco’s kiss had largely been to provide the other boy comfort. But now, Draco wasn’t sure whom this kiss was for most. He desperately wanted to comfort Potter, wanted to show him he was cared for and would never be hurt again. But Draco’s insides were also trembling terribly from what he had just heard, and getting to cling to Potter’s lips and pour everything he had into the kiss was the best remedy for himself that he could think of.

Another few seconds passed. Then, finally, Potter said, “All right. Er, come over and close your eyes.”

Draco did as Potter bade. He stepped close to the curtain, heart still rabbiting as he inhaled the heavy steam. He closed his eyes.

Though he could not see, he heard the rustle of the shower curtain, and his skin prickled. Then slowly, slowly, wet lips descended onto his.

 _Yes_.

It wasn’t the most wonderful kiss in the world—they both held awkwardly still, and their only point of contact was where their lips alone met. Water from Potter’s hair dripped onto Draco’s face, cold and unpleasant. Indeed, Potter had given him a million kisses that had been objectively more enjoyable than this one. But this was perfect anyway. Because Potter was here, and he was so good. Their lips were sliding over each other, and their tongues were brushing, and Draco was so in love with—

He pulled away and turned back toward the sink ledge, neither looking at Potter nor at his reflection. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “I’m ready to hear more now, if you’re willing to tell me.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Potter said, “O-okay,” sounding confused and slightly dazed. “Are you sure?”

“Please.” He shook his head to clear it of his troubled thoughts. Draco truly meant what he said, and Potter deserved his undivided attention. “If you can bring yourself to talk to me about it, I really…” He took a deep breath, and steeled himself. “I really want to know.”

Potter paused again. Draco wished he could see his face. But finally, Potter answered, “All right.”

And with that, Potter began to talk. To really talk, about those things from his childhood Draco’d only gotten glimpses of before. And he didn’t stop talking until long after they’d returned to Draco’s room and crawled under the covers together.

Potter didn’t cry, even though Draco thought his words more than warranted it. He just said things rather stiffly, mouth pinched and brows furrowed darkly. Draco, meanwhile, felt each word as keenly as a blade. He would have curled up and bawled himself senseless, but he had to be strong for Potter. And so he was.

Draco lay on the bed next to him, one hand squeezing Potter’s, while the other boy spoke. He replied occasionally, when Potter wanted him to—or when Draco felt it necessary, to contradict a self-deprecating thought or offer support when Potter’s words failed. But he also just listened.

Then finally, finally, Potter finished talking. And Draco squeezed his hand again, and told him how grateful he was that Potter told him these things. Potter didn’t reply to that; instead, he tugged on Draco’s hand and pulled in close, until they could wrap their arms around each other. His face pressed into Draco’s chest, and Draco began to stroke his hair.

Potter was muttering something. Draco turned his head to hear better, and realised with dread that Potter was saying he’d never known what a motherly hug felt like until he was fourteen.

And Draco was glad that Potter’s face was hidden, so that Draco could quietly let out some of the tears he’d been holding in all evening. Fuck, this was so awful. Every line of what Potter had spoken was too unfair to be true. But Draco knew that it was. And now, for better or for worse, Potter had let Draco in on the truth.

Draco understood Potter more than he ever had before—more than he did from sleeping in his arms for weeks on end, more than he had from reading all those articles detailing Potter’s escapades against the Dark Lord, more than all of it. And Draco was so grateful. No, above all, Draco was something else. He was...

“Hey,” Draco whispered when he found his voice, “I—”

“Actually, can we talk about something else?” Potter asked abruptly.

“Oh.” The words Draco was going to say dried up. He swallowed. “Of course.”

Potter was clearly overwhelmed. He had been through a lot in this talk, and the last thing Draco wanted to do was push him too far. He cleared his throat, and vowed that his tone would be light and comforting from now on. He asked as breezily as he could, “About anything in particular?”

Potter shook his head no.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to free his mind up. Images of Potter as a precious five-year-old, being taunted with his cousin’s birthday gifts while Potter never received any, warred for dominance in Draco’s brain. He vowed to pull himself together, for Potter’s sake, and instead contemplated what to talk about to cheer Potter up. And after a moment, he landed on something.

“You know,” Draco began. It would be more than a little embarrassing, but it would be worth it if it made Potter feel better. So, he didn’t pause to second-guess himself and let embarrassment stop him. He just announced, “When I was growing up, I thought you were the most amazing person in the world.”

“What?” Potter asked, clearly not having expected this.

“Yeah,” Draco said. He didn’t know what exactly had prompted him to divulge it, except that Potter deserved to know it, and that it was true. He went on: “Ever since I was little, my family would tell me stories about the Boy Who Lived. No one knew anything about what you were like, of course; it was only ever guesswork. But they knew V…V… I’m sorry. The Dark Lord…”

“It’s all right. That was great progress.”

“Thanks,” Draco murmured. “But anyway, they knew the Dark Lord had thought you were a threat. And, of course, that even though you were a baby, you survived the Killing Curse, and actually managed to destroy the most powerful wizard in the world. So, they thought you might be the bigger and better Dark Lord when you grew up. They were really excited about it—loads of people were.”

“Boy, were they in for a surprise,” Potter said.

“Oh, I know. After you showed up at eleven years old and proclaimed your support for Muggle-borns and blood traitors, everyone was outraged. My father nearly had a conniption.”

“Now that, I’d pay to see.”

“It wasn’t pretty, I assure you.” Pleased to see that Potter’s spirits had improved somewhat, Draco let himself get more carried away with the story. “I didn’t think too hard about the implications of their hopes for you, though. I didn’t care that their being right would mean the world as we knew it would change—especially not when I was really little. I just cared that you sounded like the most brilliant kid in the world. I must have asked my mother to tell me stories about you at least a thousand times.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not true.”

“It absolutely, genuinely is. And I fantasised about meeting you all the time. I kept myself awake at night, imagining all the adventures we’d get up to together. Imagining being your best friend. Imagining being…” Then he coughed, cutting himself off. He should… probably lay off descriptions that came so close to the heart of things.

And anyway, he hadn’t really known what he’d wanted to be with Potter. Least of all when he’d been so young. He’d just known that he’d wanted to be it, very intensely. “So, what do you think of that?” he asked instead. “Amazing how a rejected handshake can turn things around, huh?”

Potter lifted his head from from where it had been resting on Draco’s arm, and Draco risked a glance at him. Potter was staring at him intently.

“I think,” Potter said slowly, “that I’m glad we’re making up for lost time now.” And with that, he pulled away from their hug and held out his hand.

Perplexed, Draco looked at it for a moment. Then, he processed what Potter wanted. Feeling slightly ridiculous, Draco pushed himself up to a half-sitting position, and reached his own hand out. He grabbed onto Potter’s. They shook.

“Good,” Potter said, and lay back down next to Draco on the bed.

And that was that.

They lay on their backs side by side for a long time. Staring at the ceiling and just breathing. And then, slowly but surely, they gravitated toward each other again, until Potter’s cheek was on Draco’s shoulder. Draco _Noxed_ the lights, and they settled in, with the other boy’s arm slung over Draco’s waist. Draco lightly stroked Potter’s hair again, in that way that made him breathe soft and slow, until the Hero of the Planet drifted off to sleep.

But Draco stayed awake a while longer and thought things over.

Potter. Harry fucking Potter. All those years, to live like that, to experience what he had… Draco’s chest constricted just thinking about it. It was hard to believe, hard to fathom. Potter deserved to be cherished, to be pampered. And Draco wanted to do everything for this boy, even if only just to make up for everything else.

And that brought Draco to another thing. The handshake shouldn’t have meant so much to him, he knew. Definitely not after all these years, and especially after everything else they’d done together. But it did. And it felt like doing so had clicked some final piece in Draco’s chest into place, like a rib he’d never known was missing. And whether he thought it silly or not, the truth was that the handshake meant everything to him.

For a while, Draco lay there, just listening to Potter’s relaxed breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall against him. And as Draco lay there, his thoughts finally turned to the following.

He had spent so many years of his life telling himself that he hated Harry Potter. He’d been so resentful, and filled with fury every time he saw Potter succeed at anything. He’d wanted Potter to lose, just once—but no matter what, he just kept winning. And Draco hated it. Desperately. Just once, he’d wanted Potter not to win.

And then, Hagrid had been led in chains to the castle from the Forbidden Forest, in his arms carrying the Boy Who Lived’s dead body.

Potter had lost. And Draco hadn’t been happy. He hadn’t been happy at all. And in that moment, the last shreds of _something_ inside him had finally broken.

So tonight, Potter and he lay wrapped in each others arms. They were both different people from who they’d been growing up, but finally, Draco understood what that meant. He understood who Potter was, with all the experiences that had built him. And most of all, Draco accepted that he, himself, was different now. Before, he’d been an angry and confused child; now, he knew that he had one overarching desire, more than anything else in the world. And it was that he wanted Harry Potter to be desperately, intensely, all-consumingly happy.

And Draco understood what all this meant. He recognised what his feelings for the other boy really were.

He was in love with Harry Potter. Absolutely, completely, and overwhelmingly. And he accepted that he’d known he was, for quite some time now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with this story. And, thank you to everyone for leaving such kind feedback! I genuinely treasure it with all my heart.
> 
> I’m sorry my updating schedule has been so irregular recently, but I promise I am here and I am working on this fic! Even if life may get in the way and make me take longer to update, I assure you the fic is not dead, and I will always be here if you want to message me to check in.
> 
> Thank you again. I love you, and I look forward to updating soon!! <3


	27. Chapter 27

**Draco**

Something warm and nice dragged over Draco’s skin, slowly rousing him from his sleep in the middle of the night. He blearily tried to process what was going on, still not fully sure he wasn’t dreaming.

He glanced down and took stock of himself. And ah, yes, this made sense. It was Harry. Harry’s hand, the one that had been draped across Draco’s stomach when they went to bed, was now moving, sliding over him, beneath Draco’s shirt. It spanned over his torso, his back, tracing ribs, heating him everywhere it touched. Merlin, he loved Harry so much.

This was like last time, Draco reflected with his one wakeful brain cell—the last time Harry had touched him while he was asleep. Draco hadn’t stopped him, though he should have. Draco should probably stop him now. He considered this, brain lagging behind a heavy fog.

Harry’s fingers glided over Draco’s hip, making Draco’s eyelids flutter. End this… there was some reason Draco ought to end this… wasn’t there?

But Harry’s head lay so prettily on Draco’s chest. It would be such a shame to wake him. And Harry wasn’t doing any harm, Draco reasoned groggily; if anything, his touches felt extremely pleasant.

Draco sighed, too sleepy to worry if his loud breath jostled Harry. It didn’t though—and the hand kept lazily questing over him. The fingertips brushed one of his nipples and Draco involuntarily shivered. Merlin, how could anyone’s touch feel that good? His eyes slid shut as he soaked in the pleasure.

Harry’s hand finally ceased its ministrations, now snaking around Draco’s torso and squeezing Draco tighter against him. Draco turned until he was on his side, and he and Harry were chest to chest. Then he snuggled in, and assumed that that would be the end of things.

He’d nearly drifted off again when Harry started up anew, just those gentle touches again, but this time accompanied by pressing his hips forward against Draco’s leg.

 _Oh_ , Draco thought as new warmth blazed into his chest. Harry was hard.

Draco should… should probably move away, he knew. It technically wasn’t right for him to keep the erection pressing up against him like that. But, he couldn’t really remember why, barely conscious as he was. After all, the erection wasn’t Harry’s fault. It was just a product of sleep. He was just lying there, and the two of them just happened to be touching. And it wasn’t like Harry was doing anything unwelcome with it, either. Actually, Draco didn’t have a problem with this at all. Quite the contrary, in fact.

It was relaxing, how nice that hardness felt, nestled up against Draco’s thigh. And then Harry’s leg slowly slid up toward Draco’s groin, giving gentle and quite gratifying friction to Draco’s own growing erection. Yes… yes, it was definitely fine, he concluded. It felt so very good. Harry had nothing to worry about.

Draco yawned and absently stretched, resulting in grinding up against Harry’s groin soundly. Harry exhaled, and buried his face in Draco’s chest. Draco felt warm and good and happy. And Merlin, he liked this boy. He liked him very very much. He was in love with him, also. And that was extremely nice, too.

Draco was fading in and out of consciousness, sleep overtaking him with a vengeance. He barely even noticed Harry’s hand moving again, and creeping slowly downward, except in the vague sense of knowing it felt deeply wonderful.

Just enough awareness ignited to keep him awake a minute more, when Harry’s hand suddenly slid under Draco’s waistband.

 _Oh._ Draco should probably… _oh, oh_ …

Harry’s fingers gently skated over Draco’s arse, and Draco shivered again. Was Draco asleep? He had no idea. Maybe he should push Harry away, but his limbs appeared to have sunken into the mattress and his body was enveloped in pleasure. These touches felt so good, so perfect, and Draco couldn’t help how his closed eyes conjured up images to accompany the feeling. Images of Harry grasping him more firmly… of Harry doing that and much more.

The fingers stroked over Draco’s skin, applying squeezing pressure to his arsecheek, and Draco was lost in the feeling, lost in the images in his head. He was half-asleep, had been the entire time, and he was done thinking about anything anymore. His last attempt at consciousness was the thought, _I should probably… do something… eventually…_ before fully drifting off again.

* * * * *

**Harry**

Draco sighed in Harry’s arms, and Harry held him tightly against his own body. He embraced him securely, while Draco tried to rock both backward against Harry’s hand and forward into Harry’s cock.

He was so beautiful, and so wanton, as Harry rocked with him and gave him the friction they both craved. Harry squeezed the arsecheek he grasped in his hand, while he ground his own cock against Draco’s, teasing him and making the boy in his arms shudder. Draco could have more soon, have exactly what he wanted, what he needed. Harry just had to get these inconvenient pyjamas off him first.

Harry tried to work on removing the clothes. But, for some reason, he couldn’t figure out how to do it. His fingers didn’t seem to be working right—they were struggling to move, as though Harry no longer had total control over them. Why?

He tried again, more forcefully this time. This did not succeed in getting his hands to remove Draco’s clothes. What it did succeed in was waking Harry up.

Harry opened his eyes, then jolted. _Fuck!_

His hand was inside Draco’s pants. Draco’s skin was so smooth, and so warm, and so _perfect_ , like every one of Harry’s many fantasies come true and more, and _holy hell this was bad_.

He’d been doing it again—the thing he’d been doing before, which he’d almost let himself believe he could forget about. He was touching Draco— _Malfoy_ , fuck—in his sleep again. Circe, _what the fuck was wrong with him?_

Why couldn’t he keep his desires to himself? Why did pining after Draco Malfoy make him totally lose his mind and chase his lust like a wild animal?

He extricated himself from his hold on Malfoy, trying not to hate letting go of that glorious arse, and rolled onto his back. Malfoy let out another soft sigh at the loss of contact, and Harry desperately tried to maintain his grip on sanity as he turned back to the blond. He gathered the blanket that had bunched up around their waists and pulled it up securely around Malfoy’s shoulders, tucking the other boy in so he wouldn’t feel cold. Malfoy went quiet, evidently satisfied, and Harry lay back, fighting the urge to stroke Malfoy’s hair.

Merlin, Harry was so gone for him. Then he shook his head at this thought, angry at himself. This was no time to indulge in his private feelings for Draco Malfoy. He’d just been touching him inappropriately again. Harry had to shut the feelings back down, just like he always did.

His feelings were probably the problem, Harry thought bitterly. He was so gone, so driven mad by his desire for Malfoy, that he was desperate for him even on a subconscious level. And the amount that Harry tried to hold himself back during wakefulness only spurred his subconscious on, when sleep stole all of Harry’s reservations.

He wracked his brain, trying to think of a solution.

Telling Malfoy about Harry’s tendency to touch him while unconscious would put the other boy in a terribly unfair position, as Harry had already determined. Malfoy would have to compromise his own health if he chose to reject Harry, or would have to compromise his own comfort if he chose to let him stay. And, more than that—if Harry told him, Malfoy wouldn’t even have the luxury of choice. Malfoy had said himself that he benefitted from Harry’s presence _because_ the “Boy Who Lived” made him feel safe and protected. Well, if he knew that Harry had been violating his boundaries so horribly, then that feeling of security would be out the window, even if he hypothetically wanted to maintain their arrangement in spite of it. And, with the feeling of security, would disappear the only functional cure Malfoy had found for his insomnia.

Harry would clearly have to solve the problem without telling Malfoy that there _was_ a problem in the first place. So, what solution did Harry have left?

Well, the unconscious touching was caused by Harry’s frustration during his wakeful hours. Of that, he was certain. He drooled over Draco constantly, and was always refusing to act on it, which thus made Harry take it too far when sleeping removed his self-control. So…

So, Harry would have to see if satisfying more of that frustration would keep his desperation at bay.

He would give into more of his urges, so they wouldn’t become too overpowering to regulate. If he just acted on his desires when he was awake, in tactful and controlled circumstances, then maybe he wouldn’t end up acting out inappropriately when he was unconscious. Then he could rest assured knowing he wasn’t fondling Malfoy when he couldn’t supervise it.

Yes. This was genius. This was an absolutely foolproof plan.

* * * * *

**Draco**

When Draco woke up to his alarm the next morning, Potter was already awake. He was sitting next to Draco, reading from a parchment, with their sides pressed together and one hand lightly stroking Draco’s shoulder. And, Draco noted with no small amount frustration, he had not managed to spontaneously fall out of love with Potter since last night. If anything, he loved Potter more with each increasing moment. Fuck.

Draco sat up with a sigh, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Last night… something about last night. Potter touching his shoulder now was ringing a bell in Draco’s head. Something about….

All at once, he remembered what he had experienced the night before, and felt himself flush all over. Potter touching him while asleep. Fuck.

Had that been a dream? No, almost definitely not. Draco’d had enough sex dreams about Potter over the years—which, _shut up_ , he was never supposed to acknowledge to himself—to know the difference between imagination and this. He’d felt it for real, that time in the hospital wing, and indeed last night. It was real, no matter how much he shouldn’t have let it happen. He’d just been too foggy to think anything past how badly he’d wanted it.

He pushed the thoughts away, feeling guilty for enjoying the memory so much, and turned to Potter and the parchment in his hands. “What are you reading?” he asked, both to take his mind off his indecent thoughts and to avoid making eye contact.

“Letter from Ron,” Potter said. “Good morning to you, too.”

Draco laughed despite himself. “Sorry. Good morning.” He turned and swung his legs over the other side of the bed, so his back was to Potter now. Because merely avoiding eye contact was obviously not enough. “Anything interesting?”

“Same old, mostly. Plus the store being extra hectic this time of year.” Then he snorted, adding, “And asking me what the hell he should get his mum for Christmas.”

Draco had never had one positive interaction with the Weasley family before. But, hearing Potter mention them in such a casual way wasn’t the most unpleasant thing. It was actually… sort of nice. “Well? Any ideas for him?”

“Hell no. Last time, I suggested he knit her a jumper, and he almost strangled me.”

Why was it so hard not to smile around Potter? Draco fought to keep his voice cool and collected as he responded. “Hmm. All right, how about a set of quality hand towels?”

“Hand towels?”

“Yes.” Draco imagined the no-doubt threadbare linens in the Weasley home. “People tend to neglect comfort when their old items are still technically useful. But new towels can really go a long way. It’s an easy gift to procure, quite tasteful, and they’ll make his mother feel cared for.”

Potter was silent for a moment, and Draco finally turned around to look at him. “Malfoy… that is amazing,” he said. “How did you think of that?”

“I’m a genius?”

“Yes! You are!” His smile lit up the room and made Draco blush obscenely. “What would I do without you?”

Draco shook his head, unable to fight the besotted look he knew was creeping onto his face. “Get people shit presents, I imagine.”

“No kidding. Do you think you could give me advice on all my Christmas shopping?”

“I mean, sure,” Draco replied with a shrug. “It’d be fun, getting into the holiday spirit by bossing you around.”

“Your favourite pastime.”

“Naturally.”

They each retrieved their toiletries, and shuffled off to the bathroom together. The whole way, they kept talking.

“So, have you done your shopping yet?” Potter asked.

“No, not yet. I should probably go soon, though. I’m usually more on top of these things.” Yes, usually. Besides last year, when the Malfoys hadn’t done gift exchanges at all. Or this year, when Draco had been distracted by trying to get _Potter_ on top of _him_.

“Me neither—I haven’t even started thinking about it,” said Potter. “So why don’t we do it together, and you can tell me what to get people? We can go to Hogsmeade this weekend, if you want.”

The words stopped Draco’s breath short. Hogsmeade. With Potter. Draco’s stomach fluttered, despite the fact that reacting in such a way was patently ridiculous. “Sure, that works for me.”

“Brilliant!”

Draco nodded, and then forced himself to look away. He busied himself with brushing his teeth and washing his face. The water felt colder than usual against the burning of his skin.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, and split up to their respective tables.

“Why are you blushing _this_ time?” Pansy asked when Draco arrived. He glared at her, and promptly buried his face in a mug of tea so she would bugger off. Luckily, Pansy didn’t get too much time to try and bother Draco about it; it wasn’t long before McGonagall was calling everyone to silence.

Ah, yes. It was that time of year again.

McGonagall continued by rattling off the announcement that she made every year in the first week of December. By the end of the week, she reminded them, all underage students intending to go home for the holidays would need to inform her of their plans.

Intellectually, Draco knew McGonagall was only speaking to those in sixth year and below, and that seventh and eighth years—who were all of age—could just decide on their own whether they wanted to take the train home or not. Still, this announcement sparked thoughts within him nonetheless. Thoughts that he’d been staunchly trying not to dwell on until now.

He swallowed, considering his plans for Christmas. He hadn’t been letting himself contemplate it too much, because both of his parents were in Azkaban without visitation privileges. Draco would be spending the holiday at Hogwarts. And he’d try to keep his spirits up despite the crushing disappointment at this fact.

But, he wouldn’t be alone, he reminded himself as his heart threatened to sink. He’d have Pansy here as well, because she was in much the same boat as Draco. And he’d have whoever else decided to stay here for Christmas, too. He’d have…

Oh. Oh fuck.

Potter would be going back home to the Weasleys for Christmas, Draco realised with a rush of dread. Ice sank into Draco’s stomach, and slowly crept through his entire body. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“What are you and Potter doing for Christmas?” Pansy asked next to him, ill-timedly voicing Draco’s thoughts.

“I… I have no idea,” he whispered faintly.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Well, you should probably figure that out fast, shouldn’t you?”

“I know.” His fingers shook slightly when he picked up his fork and knife again.

What the hell was he going to do?

* * * * *

**Harry**

Harry went about his day with newfound enthusiasm. The plan he had settled on, to give into his desires for Malfoy more often and without shaming himself, had put a spring in his step. This morning, he’d felt freer and more emboldened to seek what he wanted than he had in a while. And he could feel the difference it made just from that one interaction alone; he already felt happier, more relaxed, more alive.

After breakfast, he and Malfoy met up at the exit of the Great Hall, since it was Tuesday and they had Potions. The whole walk down to the dungeons, Malfoy looked anxious, but Harry didn’t know why. When he asked, Malfoy just shook his head and changed the subject to asking if they could play Quidditch that afternoon. Although still concerned, Harry agreed to the idea.

Harry again remembered his plan not to curtail his desire for Malfoy as much anymore, so at the soonest opportunity, he pulled Malfoy into an alcove and kissed him deeply. When he pulled back, Malfoy seemed sufficiently dazed and distracted from any worries he’d been feeling before. So, good. A perfect win-win.

When they arrived at Potions, Slughorn gave them all an in-class brewing assignment. Wordlessly, Harry and Draco sought a cauldron in the back of the room where they wouldn’t be bothered by anyone else.

It made perfect sense for them to partner up together, obviously. After all, they were revising together—so, they might as well keep it consistent within class, too. That could only help their academic endeavors. And there was no problem with the fact that they didn’t even for a moment consider joining with anyone else. That didn’t mean a single thing at all.

Whatever. Harry didn’t need to think too hard about it. Not when Malfoy was standing so close and smelling so nice. And anyway, Malfoy was genuinely good in this subject, and Harry would be a fool not to capitalise on the ability to partner with him again. This was only Harry’s intelligence talking. And, if Harry accidentally-on-purpose pretended to be slightly more unsure about potion stirring than he was, just so Malfoy would place a delicate hand on his wrist to guide the movements, well…

Oh, bugger it. Harry was only human.

* * * * *

As time went on, Malfoy kept looking slightly anxious, but he continually waved Harry off when he tried to ask about it. Harry decided they’d play Quidditch that afternoon like Malfoy had requested, and if that failed to cheer the other boy up, then Harry would force the issue and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

So, true to their agreement, the two of them went out to fly after classes were done for the day. They cast copious warming charms on themselves to survive the increasingly frigid weather, but that didn’t stop Malfoy’s nose and cheeks from getting adorably red from the cold. Harry was so dumbfounded by the sight of him looking both windblown and sweaty from exertion, that Harry totally missed it when the snitch flew right past his own ear. When Malfoy dove after it and caught it, Harry couldn’t even be upset. He could only stare at the other boy and feel overwhelmingly gratified at sight of that bright, triumphant smile on his face.

When it was over, Malfoy wouldn’t stop talking about how ridiculously clueless Harry had looked, and “Are you sure you didn’t just let me win?”, and that he’d thought Harry’s glasses were meant to combat blindness, and “How could you have been the youngest Hogwarts seeker in a century if you can’t spot a snitch right in front of your face?” He chattered on and on in his excitable way, but all Harry could do in response was smile dopily at him.

Plus, Malfoy did seem totally distracted from whatever had been upsetting him earlier in the day. So, just like in the corridor before Potions, Harry’s actions had resulted in a spectacular win. He still hadn’t made up his mind against pressing Malfoy to talk to him about it that night, though. But at least now it could wait.

And yes, before they left the pitch, Harry pushed Malfoy up against the broomshed and snogged him senseless. But, whatever—it had to be done. Malfoy was irresistible. And Harry had decided not to try resisting so much.

* * * * *

The rest of the afternoon and evening went off without a hitch. They arrived back from Quidditch, showered, and got food from the kitchens that they ate back in their room before getting ready for bed.

Or, wait, not _their_ room, Harry remembered with a start as he ran his toothbrush under the sink. It was _Malfoy_ ’s room. It wasn’t _theirs_ , regardless of the fact that they’d both been sleeping in and generally using it for the better part of two months. It wasn’t… oh, for fuck’s sake… these were exactly the sorts of confusing thoughts Harry was supposed to be getting better at.

Regardless, the point was that now they were in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. And Harry watched Malfoy while the other boy lost himself in his routine. He seemed distracted, humming a little to himself as he always did to make sure he brushed his teeth for the right amount of time. This endeared Harry to no end, even though Malfoy had originally been embarrassed to let Harry know about it.

Malfoy’d been doing it since he was little, he’d revealed after some pressing, face bright red from the admission. This practice was yet another reason why he hadn’t wanted to brush his teeth in front of Harry.

But, Harry had encouraged him past the reluctance, and past all his strange reservations about Harry seeing him in such a “compromising” position (Malfoy’s words—which had absolutely perplexed Harry). Harry had assured him that it was okay, and worked to smooth away his doubts. Because encouraging Malfoy past things that made him nervous was Harry’s mission at all times.

All these thoughts came back now, as Harry gargled water and rinsed. About how Malfoy had gone from nervous and sputtering excuses to happily humming and swaying his hips in the mirror. About how Malfoy looked so soft getting ready for bed, and about how Harry would get to snuggle up close to him in a matter of minutes from now. Harry’s eyes roamed over Malfoy’s pyjama-clad body as the other boy finished up his routine and stowed away his belongings, and Harry felt heat in his own body grow.

“Are you done with everything?” Harry asked abruptly, surprised to hear the huskiness in his voice.

“Yeah,” Malfoy replied. “Are you ready to—?”

Harry pulled him in and captured Malfoy’s mouth in his. Malfoy gasped into it. Harry was rewarded with the fresh minty taste he’d been hoping for.

Gods, Malfoy was perfect. And he was so gratifying to kiss.

Harry simply couldn’t resist the draw toward Malfoy, not when he stood so close and looked like that. The pull was too great. And if Harry didn’t give in, especially so close to bed, then Harry would be at his greatest danger of touching the other boy in his sleep. He was only being pragmatic, giving into the desire now. Only being intelligent. Only being…

He quickly lost his train of thought.

He cupped Malfoy on either side of the face, kissing him deeper, and Malfoy seemed to melt into it, sighing and wrapping his arms around Harry’s back. _Fuck_ , Malfoy was so touchable.

Harry’s hands were grasping at his body a little desperately in no time at all. It was mad, the effect Malfoy had on him, how intensely Harry felt himself responded. Malfoy was grabbing at Harry, too, pulling him closer, and Harry was lost in it.

Harry twisted them, and then he pushed the blond back until he was bracketed against the counter. Harry’s body pinned him against it, and they were kissing harder now. He had just enough presence of mind to quickly hiss “ _Colloportus_ ” and lock the door, before he lost all mental faculties that existed outside of touching Draco Malfoy.

He pulled at Malfoy until the Slytherin got the idea and sat up on the counter. Then Harry invaded his space again, crowding him in. His left hand twisted in Malfoy’s hair. He knew he was grabbing it to the point of pain, but Malfoy didn’t seem upset. Instead, he was panting, letting out quiet noises that could even be classified as moans. Harry was so gone. His right hand was under Malfoy’s shirt immediately, sliding over his skin, groping, obsessed with every inch of him.

Malfoy was saying something, between kisses, but it was too faint and not coherent enough for Harry to make it out. Especially when Harry’s mind was as foggy as it was. Then Harry’s hand was sliding down, past the small of Malfoy’s back, down to grasp…

Malfoy made more sounds like words, seeming more urgent now, but Harry didn’t understand what the words were until his hand was firmly on Malfoy’s arse over his trousers, squeezing it automatically; he used his hold to pull Malfoy against him, as Harry’s own hips pressed forward, and _ah_. Now Harry knew why Malfoy had started to sound worried.

Harry had totally forgotten the part where they weren’t supposed to have erections around each other.

Now, their erections were flush, rubbing up against each other and offering the most mind-blowing friction. Malfoy was hard, _so_ hard, and he pressed up against Harry’s own throbbing cock, and it took everything in Harry and more not to grind against him with abandon. Hell if Harry hadn’t fantasised about a million moments just like this.

Harry froze, staring at Malfoy’s shoulder and unable to lift his eyes. Malfoy froze, too, except he was also trembling.

Talking at that moment was perhaps the most difficult thing Harry had ever done. But, he managed, with a, “We… we should probably…”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, just breathed loudly. His cock twitched against Harry’s, and Harry’s knees nearly gave out.

Harry stepped back, rather forcefully. He almost lost his balance, dizzy with the loss of contact and the lack of blood anywhere in his body besides his groin. “I, er… sorry,” he muttered awkwardly. He could not quite raise his eyes from the floor.

Malfoy still didn’t speak. He just cleared his throat, and shifted a little on the ledge. Harry forced his eyes to remain pointed at the ground, refusing to give into the near-insurmountable urge to see if Malfoy’s erection was visible through his trousers.

“Sorry,” Harry repeated stupidly.

“So you’ve said,” replied Malfoy, stiffly. His voice sounded slightly hoarse.

Harry swallowed, and dared a glance up at Malfoy. The Slytherin’s face, though reddened, was impassive. “Right,” Harry said. “Er. Yeah, well, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

The blond sighed and looked away, busying himself with sliding off the ledge and smoothing out any wrinkles in his pyjamas in the mirror. “Sure, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I, er… I dunno, I’m just…”

“Just sorry?” His voice seemed to get more biting now. “What, pray tell, are you sorry for?”

Harry tried to find the words to express his thoughts—hell, he tried to find the thoughts to put into words. But, his mental capacity was evidently still checked out until further notice.

In all honesty, he was sorry for so much and not enough all at once. He was sorry for getting carried away with things just then. He was sorry that he wanted to keep going, even now, and he felt like shit that he wasn’t sorry enough to put the proper distance between the two of them. He still believed he could fix their dynamic, if he found just the right combination of less-and-more restraint. And he was sorry he hadn’t found it yet.

But he had no idea what to tell Malfoy. None of these things would be good to say out loud. He was sorry for attacking Malfoy with his lust, but he was also sorry for stopping. (And for that matter, he was also sorry for constantly fantasising about tying Malfoy up to the four posters of a bed and slowly licking every inch of his quivering body.)

It didn’t make sense, even if Harry could say it all without repercussions. He just floundered, in silence, in the process probably making everything worse.

“Whatever, Potter,” Malfoy finally said. His tone had reverted to something nonchalant and unruffled. He looked up in the mirror at Harry, and made eye contact with him like everything in the world were normal. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for checking. And yourself?”

At a loss for anything else, Harry could only nod.

“Good,” said Malfoy shortly. With that, he went to the door and opened it. Harry tried not to feel his body reheat at the reminder of why it had been locked. “Is that all?”

Harry cleared his throat, and replied with an impressively calm-sounding, “Sure.”

Without another word, Malfoy nodded and headed back down the hallway to the bedroom.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco reentered the bedroom, cursing Potter and life in equal measure. If Potter hadn’t wanted to do anything with Draco, couldn’t he have decided that before giving Draco the worst blue balls ever known to man?

Fucking hell. Why did everything have to be so difficult?

Despite his own stalling throughout the day, Draco had been planning on somehow broaching the Christmas subject tonight. Instead, Potter had derailed him by being so… fucking… derailing. And Draco couldn’t even be happy about what that had entailed, because of how it had ended. Not only had he given Draco an absolutely evil case of blue balls, but he’d said things that were endlessly worse. He’d said, “I’m sorry.”

Well, Draco was only very heartbroken over it. What the fuck ever. It wasn’t like he thought he _ought_ to have any hope about Potter. It just hadn’t been fun to be tantalised like that when it was all a lie.

He leapt into bed angrily, and promptly hid his face in a pillow as he willed his furious erection to subside. But again, absolutely whatever.

Sure: if Draco were going to totally let his imagination take over, then he’d admit that Potter did seem to be touching him more than usual, and that Potter wasn’t using nerves as an excuse anymore. And if that was true, then that might mean that it was in the realm of possibility that Potter could actually maybe feel things for him.

But it was clearly more complicated than that. Because of course, Draco’s life could never be easy, especially not where it concerned Harry Potter. Potter didn’t want Draco; he’d stopped their touching, right when it should have presumably been extra difficult for a horny bloke to stop. And he’d _apologised_ for it—multiple times, in fact. And he looked so goddamn distressed, like grinding his cock against a willing surface for half a minute was the most repulsive thing he’d ever done.

See, this was exactly why Draco _couldn’t_ let his imagination take over. Wishful thinking was obviously clouding his judgment. Instead, he needed to be careful and logical, as he and Theo had discussed. Draco couldn’t afford to get carried away, not when he had everything on the line.

Because the truth was, everything was indeed on the line. Of all the things Draco could gamble with, it wasn’t his relationship with Potter. Draco was in love with him. So in love with him he felt certain that he was ruined for everyone else, forevermore.

So he had to be absolutely certain that everything was accounted for, just right, before he even considered acting on any possible feelings. Before he considered begging Potter to just fucking throw off both their clothes and have at Draco’s body. Before he demanded to know just what Potter was playing at when he gave the most confusing mixed signals in the world. No—before all that, Draco had to made sure he the least possible damage could be done.

And that meant that before he allowed himself to contemplate the pipe dream notion that Potter could have feelings for him, Draco _had_ to get the insomnia thing under control. He couldn’t rely on Potter as a crutch for his basic survival. That power dynamic was no basis for a relationship. Draco had to be an independent person, someone whom Potter could actually want. Someone Potter actually might be able to see himself with.

And, for that matter, Draco wanted to be someone functional enough that Potter _could_ reject him if he wanted to, so that it would actually mean something if he didn’t. Not that Draco wanted to think about the possibility of Potter rejecting him, obviously; the very idea gave Draco palpitations so intense his body nearly shook.

But Potter was _it_ for him. So Draco had to be thorough.

It was at this time in Draco’s ruminations that Potter entered the room. Draco couldn’t see him—face still buried in the pillow as it was—but he heard the Gryffindor shuffle in. Slowly approach the bed. Climb in, cause the mattress to dip, and settle himself gracelessly under the sheets.

Draco fought to keep his skin from prickling as Potter scooted close, but of course Draco utterly failed in this regard.

“Hullo,” Potter mumbled awkwardly, and Draco simply had to laugh. Draco gave up resisting, and mumbled a greeting back, before reaching back and dragging Potter’s hand over to circle Draco’s waist.

Then, as though nothing strange had happened in the bathroom, Potter suggested they try their “Voldemort” exercise again—where Potter would say the name and Draco would try to increase his tolerance.

Draco didn’t know how to feel about the suggestion. Once again, it was a reminder that their relationship was all about Potter nursing Draco through weaknesses. But on the other hand, it was also a chance for Draco to improve, so that he could get to the point where he wouldn’t need the help anymore. And that was the goal of all of this, wasn’t it? To get to that point—because that point was the only chance Draco had.

Either way, he consented, and they picked up the exercise where they’d left off. For all its fraught implications, their snogging session in the loo a few minutes prior had certainly helped distract Draco from any fears of a long-dead maniac.

Dare Draco say it, but he actually thought he was getting pretty good at this exercise. When Potter said the name, Draco didn’t even flinch anymore.


	28. Chapter 28

**Harry**

Wednesday afternoon was their last Quidditch practice before the holiday. When Demelza Robins announced this, Malfoy got twitchy again. Harry shot him a quizzical look, but Malfoy wouldn’t make eye contact with him.

Unfortunately, given the nature of practice, Harry didn’t get the opportunity to confront him about it. After Demelza explained the game plan, they broke from their circle and were immediately corralled into drill exercises. Malfoy looked especially determined to throw himself into practice, too, so Harry couldn’t get his attention to ask if everything was all right.

But Malfoy couldn’t stall forever. Practice ended eventually, and despite how Malfoy ducked his head and tried to shuffle off the field as quickly as possible, he could not stop the inevitable.

Harry caught up to him a ways from the pitch. He grabbed Malfoy's hand and stepped in front of him to block him going any further. “Hey, what’s going—”

“Potter, it is cold out here,” Malfoy said quickly, looking over Harry’s shoulder impatiently instead of making eye contact. “Unhand me so I can go inside and thaw myself before I die of hypothermia.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the deflection. “You are not that cold. The warming charms are supposed to last at least another half hour.”

Malfoy scoffed in offense. “Easy for you to say! I’ll have you know I have always been sensitive to the cold, and you’ve no right to tell me what I—”

“Seriously. What is up with you? You’ve been acting strange and I just want to know why.”

“I am not acting strange. You’re clearly imagining things. I am absolutely fine.”

Harry stared at him. The anxious eyes. The troubled frown. Please—like Harry would be able to miss Malfoy’s textbook signs of distress from a mile away. “We both know I know you better than that. Come on. The sooner you tell me the sooner we can see about fixing it.”

Malfoy frowned deeper at this. But, he didn’t try to deflect again. “Not sure we can,” he muttered.

“We can try. Let me give it a shot.” He let go of Malfoy’s hand to give the other boy some space. “What’s wrong?”

With his hands free, Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest. He hesitated for a bit, looking like he wanted to do anything but have this conversation. But finally, he grumbled, “Christmas.”

Harry blinked, taken aback by the seeming non-sequitur. “Christmas? What about it?”

“What are you doing for Christmas, Potter? What are…” He looked almost pained. “What are _we_ doing?”

Oh.

“Er, I was going to….” He stopped, mind whirling confusedly. He hadn’t really thought about it. And he was an idiot not to. But he’d been caught up by the madness of every new day, and he hadn’t considered thinking so far in advance.

The fact was, he’d just sort of taken as a given that he’d spend Christmas with the Weasleys. And he’d also, just as much, pictured spending it with Malfoy. And it hadn’t even occurred to him how those things were mutually exclusive. “You’re right,” he said, letting out a long exhale that swirled in a white cloud in front of him. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said quickly. “I didn’t think about it until yesterday. And I don’t… I mean… I don’t want to put you in a situation where—”

“No. Please don’t worry. It’s not such a big deal.”

“Pardon?” Malfoy looked at him like he had three heads. “Of course it is. It’s Christmas, and winter hols, and your family. You shouldn’t have to worry about this sort of thing making…”

“Seriously. It’s fine. Yes, I should’ve squared this away sooner, but it’s not like it’s hard to decide what to do.”

Malfoy winced, clearly bracing himself for a blow. But Harry had no idea why he’d be worried—as though Harry were ever going to leave him. “Obviously I’ll stay here with you.”

Malfoy’s arms dropped to his sides, seemingly from the force of his shock. “What? Really?”

“Of course. I’m not going to just abandon you.”

“But…” Malfoy floundered. “But you shouldn’t…”

“I mean it. I want to stay here.”

“But the Weasleys! Your—your family!”

“They’ll understand.” Harry tilted his head toward the castle, indicating that they should start walking as they talked. Malfoy wavered a moment, then followed. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s fair to anyone to suggest you stay with them right now,” Harry admitted. The imposition of another guest, when their house would already be so packed, was one concern—but that typically wouldn’t be an issue. However, the intense discomfort both parties would experience, given their history with each other, made it basically a nonstarter. Even in Harry’s mind, and he was usually pretty optimistic about these things.

Malfoy shuddered. “Of course not. No, I’d never expect that.”

“But that doesn’t mean they’ll be angry or anything if I stay with you,” Harry assured him. “And it doesn’t mean you’d never be welcome with them in the future. They’re good people. They might take some warming up, but I think things will definitely be better…”

 _By next year_. That was how Harry almost finished the sentence. And then he slammed his mouth shut, mortified at himself.

He couldn’t just throw around words like that. It would demoralise Malfoy to suggest that his debilitating insomnia would last so long. And if it didn’t last, then to say such words sounded like Harry expected Malfoy to stay with him without it. To spend countless hours with him, to keep sharing a bed, and to spend holidays with Harry’s family. Almost as in… almost like… like they were…

“The point is,” he rushed on, shaking his head to clear it, “it’s totally fine. I don’t go to the Burrow every year, anyway. There’s really no problem.”

“Are you sure?” Malfoy asked.

“Yes. I mean, what do _you_ think about all this?”

Malfoy sucked in a breath, looking troubled. “Well, I…” he began. His mouth twisted unhappily. “I don’t think I’m able to sleep alone quite yet.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “And that’s okay. There’s no reason you have to. I’ll just give them a heads up that I’ll be staying at Hogwarts, and everything will be set.”

There was a pause, and then suddenly Malfoy’s head jerked up. “Wait—but won’t they want to know _why_ you’re cancelling?”

Harry sensed what he meant by this question, and where this conversation was going. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I mean, if you’re asking what I think you’re asking… well. I’ve already told Ron about you and the sleeping thing.”

“What!” Malfoy spluttered. “You have?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell him?!”

“Just, you know. About the insomnia, and how I keep you company, and how it’s helpful for both of us.”

“And what did he say?!”

“Well, he didn’t believe me at first. But he came around. And he supports it.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Seriously. You’re pulling my leg. If he ever thought we had such an association, he would hunt me down and torment me until I released you from some spell.”

Harry laughed and shook his head. “I mean it, Malfoy. I told him and he’s okay with it.”

 _It_ , of course, was not including the part where Harry and Malfoy kissed and all. Because Harry still hadn’t told Ron about that. But whatever—the point was, Ron knew about their sleeping arrangement and newfound friendship, and he hadn’t blown a gasket. And that boded quite well, all things considered.

Malfoy looked intensely doubtful. But he just stared at Harry, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Come on,” Harry said. “Let’s shower up. I’ll write to Ron and let him know about the change of plans, and then we can do some work before dinner. Hermione said we could join her in the library. Thoughts?”

Malfoy still gaped at him speechlessly. But after a moment, he nodded.

They walked the rest of the way to the castle in silence.

* * * * *

Malfoy showered first, and while Harry waited, he wrote his letter to Ron.

He felt a bit apprehensive, he had to admit as he sat down at his desk, about doing this. Telling Ron how he planned to spend Christmas cozying up with Draco Malfoy. It was absolutely true, though. And he knew Ron would understand—after all, Harry really did believe what he had said to Malfoy. But there was something about explicitly writing Ron about this that made Harry feel awfully naked, like he was wearing his heart completely bare on his sleeve.

He pictured how Ron might look receiving his letter, and then promptly had to shake himself out of the thought.

It was just a letter. And it was just stating the circumstances of a very simple situation. It was just letting his best friend know about his holiday plans.

He took a deep breath. This was no big deal, he reminded himself as he got out a fresh piece of parchment. No big deal at all. He dipped his quill in ink and scrawled a quick and casual letter to his friend.

Due to the arrangement with Malfoy, he explained, he would have to spend Christmas in the castle. But he assured Ron that he’d mail his presents to the Burrow—and he was actually excited about his gifts this year, since Malfoy was going to help pick them out in Hogsmeade on Saturday. He added the genius advice that Malfoy had given him, about how Ron should get Molly hand towels. Harry ended the letter by saying he missed Ron and couldn’t wait to see him again, and also that he hoped George had managed to grow his eyebrows back since that glitter-bomb tree ornament had exploded in his face.

There. Simple. Easy.

* * * * *

After they’d both finished showering, they met up with Hermione in the library. Things went seamlessly for the first fifteen minutes, until of course, something had to happen.

When it happened, Hermione was working silently on Ancient Runes, while Malfoy stood at Harry’s side, leaning over his shoulder to examine Harry’s Potions work.

“You keep writing the additives before writing the base,” Malfoy murmured next to Harry’s ear. Harry fought the overwhelming urge to shiver, as Malfoy’s voice, breath, and presence brushed against his skin and did Things to him.

“So?” Harry managed to reply. “What’s the difference?”

“I think that’s why you keep getting confused.” He pointed to the open page of Harry’s textbook. Harry watched how that lithe hand moved, and he tightened his own grip on his quill. “It’s easier to sort potions if you examine the components in a uniform order,” Malfoy went on. “Otherwise, your brain will skip around and won’t be able to keep track of what you’ve already noted, let alone to examine how each potion subtly differs from the others. From now on, write everything as base first, and then additives, in order from the largest measurement to the smallest.”

Harry groaned at the prospect of more effort. He stared down at the parchment. It seemed like a silly thing to care about, especially when following this advice required so much extra work. But, he humoured Malfoy, not having the heart to contradict him while he stood right there watching. So, slowly, Harry rewrote the ingredients in his list of potions, the way Malfoy had told him to.

At first, he didn’t see a difference. But as he neared the bottom of the page, it clicked.

“Holy shit,” Harry hissed. An exhilarated jolt shot through him at the thrill of comprehension. “I get it.”

“Yeah?” Malfoy asked. He didn’t sound condescending, like Harry might have predicted he would in such a situation. Instead, he sounded delighted.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, excitement filling him as he stared down at pages of words and realised it all made sense. “I can line them all up and compare them right away. How did I never know it could be this easy?”

They turned to each other, grinning. Harry was so happy. So thankful. So impressed.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to Harry’s lips. Harry realised abruptly that their faces were mere inches apart. Harry’s breath stuttered to nothing. Time seemed to slow. He nearly leaned in.

Then Malfoy seemed to remember himself, and he turned away again, looking back to the parchment as though nothing had happened.

“I don’t know how you never knew,” he said, tone professional as he examined a random diagram. “Snape and Slughorn both mentioned it multiple times.”

Harry sighed. He’d figure Malfoy was insulting him, except the blond’s tone seemed too detached for that. “I dunno. I never listened to either of them much.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Malfoy smirked, teasingly, before moving away to sit back down in his own chair. Harry didn’t know which thing to focus on—how cold it felt when Malfoy increased the distance between them, or how the sight of that teasing smile made his heart flutter strangely. Both were rather terrible things to dwell on.

“Well, Snape was a dick, so you shouldn’t be surprised,” Harry replied, taking the bait and sliding into banter. “The only time he ever taught me anything was when it wasn’t even on purpose.”

Malfoy furrowed his eyebrows at this. “What do you mean?”

Harry realised what he’d referenced, and shrugged guiltily. “Oh. It’s, er… a long story.”

“The same long story you mentioned before, about why you did so well in sixth year?”

Harry nodded, and bit his lip. “Yeah, that.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows stayed furrowed, but he didn’t ask anything else. They settled back into working silently. Now that Malfoy had clarified the note-taking issue causing Harry such confusion, it all went much more smoothly from then on. He only needed to ask questions once or twice, the whole rest of the hour they were there.

When Harry looked up at her, Hermione was giving him one of those smiles again. He turned resolutely back to his books.

* * * * *

After about an hour, they headed down to dinner, Harry and Malfoy parting ways to head to their respective tables. Upon arrival, Harry threw himself into conversation with Seamus, rather than allow Hermione’s continual clandestine smiles to get under his skin.

Apparently, Seamus wanted to throw a big end-of-exams party on the last night before the holiday. Harry nodded along, voicing his support and offering ideas about how to smuggle Firewhiskey in. But, in reality, all he could think about was that Hermione was probably going to report the almost-kiss in the library back to Pansy Parkinson. Merlin. Harry looked forward to the alone time he and Malfoy would get during the holiday.

After dinner, Harry bade goodbye to the Gryffindor table and mailed off his letter to Ron. When he was done, he made his way back to the dormitory.

He’d just dropped his bag onto his bed and begun unloading it when a knock sounded on the door. A moment later it opened to reveal Malfoy.

“Hey,” Harry said.

It was a good thing he’d made his peace by now with how attractive Malfoy was, because the sight of him leaning against the doorframe was enough to punch the air out of Harry’s lungs. He turned back to his bag to keep his hands and eyes busy.

“You know, you’re going to have to tell me about it at some point,” said Malfoy casually.

“Tell you about what?”

“About the long story. In sixth year.”

“Oh.” Harry thought about what that would entail, and cleared his throat. “Actually, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for us to talk about sixth year.”

“Why not?” Malfoy closed the door behind him and leaned back up against it. “Would it upset you too much?”

Harry exhaled forcefully, considering how to respond. It was true that the story didn’t have to touch on the uncomfortable details if he didn’t want it to, Harry supposed. He could just be vague about the whole thing and its significance. But skating around the parts that concerned Malfoy felt disingenuous, like Harry would be lying by omission. He couldn’t tell it without telling all of it—and he baulked at the idea of the latter. “It’s not me I’m worried about,” he said finally.

Malfoy didn’t say anything for a few moments, and the air prickled hotly against Harry’s skin.

When Malfoy spoke again, he sounded almost angry. “We both know what happened that year. It’s not a secret. And we’ve talked about some of it before.”

“Right, but…” Harry had no idea how to articulate what he was feeling. He risked a glance back up at the Slytherin, and saw that Malfoy’s body was stiff as a board and his expression was contorted in displeasure. “I think talking about this would just bring up bad memories, with no real point.”

“No real point? Potter. I want to know. That should be a point enough.”

“No, actually, it’s not. You only want to know because you don’t realise what…” Words failed him. He ran his hand through his hair exasperatedly. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place. I don’t know why I did. I shouldn’t have brought it up any of those times, and it was stupid to—”

“You brought it up because it happened to you! And it obviously made enough of an impression on you to be relevant in so many conversations. So I want you to tell me about it.”

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

“Because I want to know everything about you.”

The moment he said it, Malfoy looked like he wanted to take it back.

Harry, for his part, nearly teetered where he stood. _You can tell me anything_. That was what Hermione had said to Harry a few weeks ago, in reference to the Malfoy situation. And he’d known he could, because Hermione was his best friend, and she and Harry had been through so much together, and they loved each other.

Harry felt the same sentiment about Malfoy. Harry felt the intense desire to share everything with Malfoy, to know everything, even if the other boy thought it didn’t portray him in the best light. Harry had still wanted it, wanted everything.

This was indeed what friends did. And he and Malfoy were friends—they’d literally said so out loud before. And they’d certainly told each other enough personal information, and seen each other at their most vulnerable.

They’d also seen each other at their worst, and they were still here.

Harry realised with a twist of his stomach that he did want Malfoy to know. He wanted Malfoy to know everything. It sent a jittery rush through his body to think such a thing. But it was true.

Was there really anything Harry couldn’t tell him? Well, besides the one thing Harry knew he couldn’t, which was how he felt about Malfoy. But, besides that. Didn’t he want the barriers to fall down?

“I…” he began quietly, breath stuttering with nerves. “I want you to know everything about me, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I just, I don’t want this to… to trigger you, I suppose.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows furrowed, and his fists clenched and unclenched. “This story has to do with me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Not the whole time. But, yes. It does.”

Malfoy sighed, and swallowed. Then, he said resolutely, “In that case, let’s get ready for bed first.”

* * * * *

**Draco**

Fifteen minutes later, they were both in Draco’s room. They sat next to each other on the bed, legs under the covers, not looking at each other. Draco was nervous, to say the least. But he was also determined.

“So,” Draco said.

“So,” Potter agreed.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

For a few moments, neither of them said anything else. Then, finally, Potter spoke.

“In sixth year, I accidentally wound up with this old Potions textbook,” he said. “It was all worn and ugly, which is why it was the only one left when I got there. And at first I thought getting stuck with it was rotten luck, but then I realised a past student had written notes in the margins. Genius stuff—all sorts of extra information and tricks for how to pass—stuff Slughorn wasn’t even teaching us. It was technically cheating, and I used it so much it drove my friends mad, but I wouldn’t give it up. I sort of got obsessed.”

“Obsessed?”

“Yeah. With the book, and with trying to figure out who wrote it. And also, you know, with…” At this, Potter sighed. “Well, I guess now is a good time to remind you that I was also rather obsessed with you.”

The skin on Draco’s arms began to tingle. He swallowed, and nodded.

“Anyway, it turns out the book belonged to Snape when he was younger. He wrote all those things in it when he went to Hogwarts.”

“No way,” Draco said automatically. That sounded too mental to possibly be true.

“I know. I promise, I didn’t want to believe it, either. But it was his. He told me himself.”

“He did? How did he know you had—”

“There was a spell he wrote in the book. He invented it himself. And then he saw me use it, so he knew where I’d gotten it.”

Potter didn’t elaborate.

Draco wanted to say he had no idea what Potter was talking about, and to change the subject immediately. But a lump was rising in his throat. Instead, Draco murmured, “You mean…”

“Yes.” Potter said. Then he turned to Draco abruptly. “We can stop talking about this if you want. Just tell me. We can talk about something else and pretend this never even happened.”

“No. I want to know about it,” Draco said firmly. And, despite his mounting unease, he really did want to know. So he braced himself, and asked, “That was the spell you used on me in the bathroom, then? And that’s why Snape knew how to help me when he got there?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“You said you didn’t know what the spell did. Why did you use it?”

Potter paused for a beat. He looked like that was the exact question he’d been dreading to hear. His voice was quiet when he replied. “All it said next to the incantation was ‘ _for enemies_.’”

Draco’s body went numb. Very abruptly, and very drastically. “Oh.”

“No. Stop.” Potter’s hands found Draco’s, and gripped them tightly as he searched Draco’s face. Draco couldn’t muster the strength to make eye contact with him. “You weren’t my enemy. Please don’t think I think you were—you know I don’t. I just, I saw the things you were doing all year, and then I was so confused and so angry, and in the moment I—”

“It’s all right. You don’t have to apologise. You had no reason not to think I was your enemy.”

“But I didn’t! You’re not my—”

“Even if you did. I’m just saying, it’s all right. I get it.”

“You do?”

Potter sounded so worried, Draco had to look at him. Despite how his throat had closed up at Potter’s earlier words, staring at that stricken face made Draco feel suddenly stronger. He managed a small smile. “Yes. I do. You’ve already explained yourself, and I’ve already forgiven you. I have plenty to be sorry for—things that could make you think I’m your enemy a thousand times over. The least I can do is cut you some slack.”

Potter still looked upset, but he also looked so relieved his shoulders sagged. Draco leaned forward and pressed his lips against Potter’s.

The Gryffindor sighed against him. Draco freed one of his hands so that he could bring it up to touch Potter’s face, and in response, the other boy squeezed Draco’s other hand tighter.

When Draco finally pulled back, he felt infinitely lighter, and Potter’s smile showed he felt much the same improvement.

“How can you like me when you’ve seen me at my absolute worst?” Draco asked suddenly.

Potter stared at him for a moment. Then, he replied, “I like you because I’ve seen you at your absolute worst.”

Draco’s heart twisted. Still, he managed a smile, and replied, “Well, there you go. So, never apologise to me about sixth year again.”

Potter stared back, eyes shiny with emotion.

They lay down, and stared up at the ceiling in silence for a while.

“So,” Draco said conversationally. He had half a mind to laugh. Despite the horrors that he had experienced in the past, he felt an objective calm about the memory of it now—once again, the magic of Potter’s company, he supposed. “How did you even know I was there? When you found me?”

“Oh. I have a magical map. That’s what I used the whole year, actually, to… to track you.” Potter had the decency to blush here. Draco had no doubt the heat on his own cheeks was plainly visible as well.

But also: “You had a _what_?” he squawked. He couldn’t even hide his astonishment at this concept. He attempted, by sneering, “That sounds just like you, of course, having a magic map that lets you spy on people and break rules left and right. Not enough to have a bloody invisibility cloak already. Doesn’t seem quite fair to the rest of us, does it?” Still, Potter clearly saw the interest underlying it all.

“Here, I’ll show you the map,” he said.

Draco started to insist he didn’t have to, not wanting Potter to think him ridiculously desperate. But Potter was already standing up and saying, “Be right back,” before Draco could get much out. And with that, Potter left the room.

* * * * *

**Harry**

The look in Malfoy’s eyes when Harry mentioned the Marauder’s Map decided it, before Harry even had to stop and think.

He was grateful at the shift in conversation, so glad they could be talking about something positive. Turn it from nursing wounds to sharing something fun. Plus, Harry remembered his own excitement when Fred and George had shown him the map for them first time, and he couldn’t wait to share that feeling with Malfoy.

He returned with the map in his hand, in its unassuming, blank state. “It belonged to my dad and his best friends when they went to Hogwarts,” he said, crawling back onto the bed. “Him, Sirius Black, Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.”

Malfoy had been staring at the parchment in confusion, but at this, he tore his eyes away to gape at Harry incredulously. “No way were they all best friends.”

Harry let out an involuntary laugh. “I swear, they were,” he said. Malfoy evidently hadn’t learned about it from his circle of Death Eaters, so it made sense that he would be shocked at the absurdity. It was all rather mad.

“Circe,” Malfoy breathed. “Your life’s insanity is _genetic_.”

Harry laughed again, louder this time, and directed his attention back to the parchment. “Anyway, they called themselves the Marauders. And they invented this map.”

He grabbed Malfoy’s wand from the nightstand and handed it to him. “Touch your wand to it and say, ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.’”

“Really?” asked Malfoy dubiously. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “what a tacky spell.”

“Really,” Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged and did as Harry had instructed. Harry watched his face intently, anxious for his reaction.

He wasn’t disappointed. After Malfoy spoke the words, ink bloomed on the page, and Malfoy gasped audibly. It spread out from the spot where the wand touched, climbing and curling and dancing until it had spanned the whole parchment. As the words appeared across the top, proclaiming the map’s title and its creators’ nicknames, Malfoy looked positively enthralled. “Merlin on a stick,” he breathed, eyes alight.

Something tugged at Harry’s chest. He ignored it, and pointed for Malfoy to examine it closer, explaining who the nicknames corresponded to and why. Malfoy’s listened to Harry's account, seeming enraptured. It was, Harry could not deny, a pretty wild story.

Harry explained everything about the Marauders, and third year, and Snape's connection to them, all the things Harry had learned about the past. Part of him thought he should feel guilty for rambling on so long, but Malfoy had said himself that he wanted to know everything about Harry. And fuck if it didn't feel amazing to share this with him.

When Harry was done talking and Malfoy had asked his fill of questions, the blond seemed just as eager, if not more so. His eyes drank up every inch of the map, the detailed depiction of every location in Hogwarts castle and the surrounding grounds, and the tiny moving dots labeled with people’s names.

“What do you think?” Harry asked.

“Are you kidding?” Malfoy's voice was high and exhilarated. Then he glanced up at Harry self-consciously, as though embarrassed he had been too enthusiastic.

The thing was tugging at Harry’s chest again. He ignored it again. “I can barely believe my dad and his friends made it,” he admitted. “It’s so impressive.”

“It really is. While they were only students, too! That’s… Morgana…” Malfoy shook his head, as though fighting not to sound too giddy.

Harry held the map out for him. “Here, you can hold it,” he said.

Malfoy stared at him, eyes owlish like a child. “I—you—really?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Gingerly, as though half worried it might disintegrate if handled too roughly, Malfoy took the map in his hands. His eyes widened further, mouth spreading into an amazed smile seemingly without his knowledge. “Fuck,” he whispered.

Encouraged, Harry pointed out particular highlights—passageways he hadn’t known about, places where the map had come in handy, the dot showing Filch roaming the halls, everything. Harry even showed him the spot where he’d watch Malfoy vanish off the map during sixth year, when he’d been disappearing into the unplottable Room of Requirement.

Malfoy looked utterly thrilled. Soon, he began to babble—about how beautiful and intricate the map was, how clever its design, how he could recognise certain charms that had been used which he’d only ever read about before.

The tugging in Harry’s chest increased. He was bewildered by it, and had no idea what the feeling was or why it was increasing. Increasing the more he sat next to Malfoy. Increasing the more he thought about sharing this—the artefact of his father’s, the item that had contributed to so many of Harry’s memories—with Draco. Increasing the more he watched Draco’s puppy-like excitement glitter.

And suddenly, as Harry watched the other boy’s unadulterated delight taking in the map, Harry realised that he was in love with him.

Oh.

Fuck.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

Harry was in love with him.

No, he shouldn’t be. He absolutely _should not be_.

But he was.

Draco glanced up and smiled at him. _Fuck_. He was. Harry was in love with him. He was in love in love in love with him. Suddenly every single moment from the past few weeks—fuck, from the past few _years_ —made sense to him. The obsession. The fascination. The thoughts. The heartbeats. The touches. The, the, the.

Everything. The everything. Harry was in love with him.

Harry sat there, staring at Draco, unable to do anything else. Unable to do anything but sit there and stare at him and love him.

Finally, after what felt like ages, Draco had examined his fill, and handed the map back to Harry. Numbly, as though in a dream, Harry showed him how to revert it back to its blank form, and explained how the map could only be viewed with the one specific spell, and even added the anecdote about it hurling insults at Snape. Draco looked so delighted that Harry could scarcely bear it.

They lay down for bed, and Harry held him, and he felt like he was on fire.

He loved Draco. Oh, gods. He loved Draco so much.

But… no. At least one thing about this, he could not allow. He had no idea why his brain kept fighting to think of him as _Draco_ , but he had to stop himself. This person was Malfoy—that had been a strict rule since they were eleven. They only used surnames. That was their dynamic. Harry was not supposed to think of him as Draco.

Well. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him, either. But that ship had long since sailed. At least Harry could control what name he thought of the other boy with—and he had to control it, because that would help tether him to his one last remaining shred of sanity.

He was in love with him. This, Harry could not help. But at least he could make sure to call him Malfoy. This would help keep Harry’s feelings in check, so he didn’t hurtle any further into oblivion than he already was. He would call him Malfoy.

And he would make sure that his feelings for the Slytherin stayed secret for the rest of his life.


	29. Chapter 29

**Harry**

Harry awoke the next morning feeling like he’d been hit by a train.

He’d slept fitfully all night, and his heart pounded even now. This would be the perfect time for Malfoy’s touch to calm him down, he thought, except that Malfoy was literally the problem.

Harry was in love with him. And every time he remembered it, it felt like getting hit by a train all over again.

He dressed and brushed his teeth and got ready for the day. Each time Malfoy smiled at him, it took another five years off Harry’s life.

 _I love you_ , he almost said. _I love you_ , he almost said again. Malfoy just kept existing, and Harry’s body practically shook from the effort not to say it. They walked to the Great Hall for breakfast, and Malfoy’s fingers brushed against Harry’s wrist as they parted ways. Harry nearly collapsed from the strain it took not to blurt it out.

He marched over to the Gryffindor table and sat down next to Hermione. She was too busy reading to acknowledge him as he arrived, so he ate his breakfast in silence, feeling grateful for the break from needing to talk. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle a full conversation right now.

Instead, he listened in on the chatter of people around him. The semester was almost over, and excitement was in the air: all they had left were classes today and tomorrow, a week of frenzied cramming, and then exams the following week. Then, it would be the sweet sweet bliss of the holiday. Harry heard Seamus describing to someone next to him that, to make it all even better, plans were underway to have their end-of-exams party in the eighth year common room. Harry allowed himself to feel cheered by the atmosphere around him, and it even managed to distract him a bit from his inner turmoil.

As time went on, he felt almost all right. He was at the point where he thought he could nearly put his worries out of his mind, when mail arrived. A letter dropped into his lap, and by the time he put down the juice he’d been in the middle of drinking and looked up, the owl had flown off. But he didn’t need to see the bird anyway, to know who had sent it. He recognised the stationery instantly—it was from Ron.

He opened it in his lap under the table, to shield it from prying eyes. Hermione had put down her book, but she was distracted by mail of her own, which was a relief to Harry.

Still, the lack of witnesses didn’t stop him from feeling nervous; anxiety built in him when he tried to predict the content of the letter. Ron wouldn’t be upset with Harry’s decision to spend Christmas with Malfoy, would he?

Well, whatever Harry might have been fearful Ron would say, he needn’t have worried. Ron seemed perfectly supportive of the situation. In fact, his letter took up three lines total, and what it read was:

_No problem, mate, I get it. But if you’re going to be in Hogsmeade on Saturday, then we should meet up. The four of us can grab a pint. Bout time I got to know the new and improved prat anyway._

_Saturday, one o’clock, at the Three Broomsticks. See you then. - Ron_

Harry looked up, face flaming. _The four of us_? No… surely Ron didn’t mean…

Perhaps he meant George, Harry thought blindly, though it made no sense to entertain the idea that both store managers would take their lunch breaks at the same time. And regardless, Ron had added the next, even more distressing sentence, which confirmed Harry’s suspicion: _Bout time I got to know the new and improved prat_. It made Harry’s heart pinwheel to read over. Because that sounded like he was referring to… which was… but surely Ron couldn’t mean…

Harry’s eyes swerved to Hermione just as she finished her own letter and glanced up at him. She was holding a piece of stationery identical to Harry’s. He didn’t need to read her letter to know exactly what it said—not when the universe hated Harry as much as it did, and not when Hermione was smiling at him the way that she was.

“So!” she said brightly. “The four of us at the Three Broomsticks on Saturday. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

Harry groaned and buried his sorrows in a bowl of Pixie Puffs.

It would be an interesting conversation trying to get Malfoy on board with _this_.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco arrived at the Hospital Wing that evening for his final therapy appointment of the term. He entered the side room dedicated for their sessions and sat in his chair, all with a newfound spring in his step.

“So,” his therapist began when they’d gotten settled. “Today is our last session before the holiday.”

“Indeed it is,” Draco agreed. “I suppose time flies when you’re having fun.” To his surprise, he found that he was only being partially sarcastic.

She smiled. “Well, you bring up a good point; reflection is important. What _do_ you think of our time together thus far?”

“It’s been nice,” Draco said. At her inquisitive look, he elaborated. “Obviously it’s been really helpful, all these sessions. And I think I’ve… er… come a long way.” He admitted that last part sheepishly, but she gave him an encouraging nod nonetheless.

“I absolutely agree, Draco. You have come a very long way. How do you feel about going a while without seeing each other? Do you have any concerns?”

“Not really. I mean, it’ll be okay taking break. I think I have what it takes to get by for a few weeks without therapy. If something happens, I have… well. I have help.”

“Can you tell me a bit more about that help?”

Draco realised he’d fallen right into her trap. “No thanks,” he said.

She laughed at his tone. “Come on now. I’m your therapist. Will you please tell me about this coping mechanism you keep mentioning? I think it’s important for me to know, especially as you will be relying on it for the next few weeks without my additional guidance.”

Draco felt his cheeks burn. He did not want to tell her. It would be so embarrassing, admitting it out loud to an adult—especially one who would likely ask many cringeworthy follow-up questions.

But… he also knew that she was right. She _was_ his therapist.

She was a professional, and would probably have something at least marginally insightful to say. Besides, he thought begrudgingly, he had to tell her about it sooner or later. He’d already stalled for a long time, as it was.

“Fine,” he grumbled. He took a deep breath. “The thing is… I’ve been, er. Spending time with Harry Potter.”

He glanced at her nervously, ready to see her make some sort of face, but she didn’t react. She just gestured for him to go on. “I don’t know if you know this,” he added, “but he and I used to hate each other. And I mean, _hate_ each other. We almost killed each other.”

Her eyebrow was raised, but she still nodded for him to continue.

“Except, well,” he muttered. “I also sort of. Was obsessed with him.” He clenched his fists to get through the mortification of saying it. “It was actually more complicated than hate, for me. I was really confused. But the point is, I also… well, he also saved my life once. In addition to all those times he saved everyone’s life—which obviously you’re aware of. And anyway, all the insomnia, it was because I felt unsafe, right? And he made me feel safe, whether I liked it or not. So we figured out he could help me with my sleeping problem—and because he’s such a do-gooder, he agreed to it. We started sharing a room at night, and I’m able to sleep whenever he’s there.”

Insides shaking, he finally sat back, done with storytelling. His therapist was watching him with an inscrutable expression. He braced himself for her response.

“And how do you feel about that?” she asked.

He almost burst out laughing. “Merlin, you’re such a therapist.”

“In fact I am,” she replied, lip quirking up.

He rolled his eyes and then schooled his expression. “I, er. I feel good,” he said. “I mean, I also feel guilty. And confused. But I’m really thankful, and I feel better than I’ve felt in a long time.” Then he paused, and furrowed his eyebrows, thinking over what he’d just said. “That doesn’t really make sense, does it?”

“It makes sense, Draco,” she assured him. “Do you mind if I ask you a bit about those feelings?”

“Sure,” he shrugged.

“What do you mean when you say you feel good?”

He sighed. “I mean, he’s actually helping. I’ve slept better in the last few weeks than I have for as long as I can remember. I feel healthy. And I’m happy about all that. It feels brilliant.”

“So why do you feel guilty?”

“Well, he’s putting in so much effort to help me. It’s asking a lot of him, and he’s done everything without complaining. Merlin, he’s even missing Christmas with his family to help me.” Indignation for Potter’s sake bubbled up in him. “He’s had to spend his whole life helping other people. He deserves a break.”

“Why do you think he does it?”

“Because he can’t stand not helping people!” Draco complained. “When he sees something going wrong, he can’t handle letting it happen without doing something. It’s such bullshit. He says he doesn’t hate me, and that he cares about me, but it isn’t right to put all this pressure on him. And I don’t know what to do about that.”

“It sounds like doing this makes him happy.”

“No, he only _thinks_ it makes him happy,” he said. Then he stopped, and scowled. He’d just admitted that Potter thought the situation made him happy—but Draco had been doubtful of that this whole time. He added, “But also I can’t help feeling like part of him thinks it’s an inconvenience. And I hate that. Merlin… I don’t know. I go back and forth what I believe. Potter’s a very odd person, and I’ll never claim to understand him.”

“Is that why you feel confused?”

“What?” He thought back, and remembered this had been the next emotion he’d listed to her. “No. I mean. Yes, that is part of it. A big part. But it’s also fairly confusing overall.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m confused by the whole lot of it! Potter makes me happy. But also… I don’t know if I want…” He shook his head. He didn’t want to tell her.

But once again, she was also his therapist.

“I want him to see me as more than just a charity case,” he confessed.

“Why do you think he sees you as a charity case?”

The question threw him. “Because I _am_ a charity case. I can’t do anything for myself—he has to do everything for me.”

“I don’t know about that. Can you really not do _anything_ for yourself?”

Again, that threw him. He thought about it and crossed his arms. “All right, I suppose I can do _some_ things,” he conceded, grumbling. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course you can do some things. And I don’t think that’s something you should overlook.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t do the kind of things he does for me.”

“I’m not so sure about that, either.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Let’s try something. Why don’t you tell me three things that you do for Harry?”

Draco frowned. “I don’t want to. That’s not the point of this.”

“Actually, I think it is the point. You seem to place a lot of emphasis on what Harry does for you, but I think you’re forgetting what you bring to the table. Now, come on. Give it a try.”

His frown deepened. He felt guilty even contemplating things he might “bring to the table.” He knew he didn’t bring anything—and anyway, even if he did, it wouldn’t nearly compensate for what Potter did for him. Draco didn’t deserve to pat himself on the back, especially not after all the trouble he’d caused throughout his life. “I don’t know. I suppose I… help him revise for exams.”

Despite how he’d chosen the most boring and inconsequential possible subject to mention, his therapist actually smiled. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure he appreciates that a lot.”

Draco wanted to glare and argue that helping with homework was completely meaningless.

But the words got lost in his mouth. He was thinking about it harder. And then he started thinking out loud. “He hates school. But when we do our work together he actually smiles. When I explain things to him and it clicks, he gets so excited he looks like a cruppy.”

She nodded enthusiastically, grinning. “So, you’ve turned something that brings him stress into something that brings him joy! And, you’ve vastly improved his experience in school, which will improve his life even after Hogwarts as well. Draco, that sounds fantastic.”

He blinked, and mulled over what she’d said. When she put it that way… it almost sounded like he _did_ do something amazing for Potter. Which was absolutely insane to believe.

But, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t figure out how to argue that her interpretation was wrong.

Before he could stop himself, he was saying, “He was abused growing up, and I comfort him and try to make him feel better when he thinks about it.” Then he froze, and he rushed to say, “But—don’t tell anyone I told you any of that. He doesn’t like how people know all about his personal life.”

“What we talk about does not leave this room,” she reminded him, soothing his increased heart rate. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. But it’s lovely to see how much you respect his wishes and want to maintain his privacy.”

He nodded, and deflated in his chair. Relieved, he added, “Sometimes he says things about what they put him through, and I remind him he deserves better, because sometimes I don’t think he knows.” Just the thought upset him. He shook his head. “And in general I, er, try to make him happy. To make up for what he went through. It’s not much, but it seems to help a bit.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “That doesn’t sound like ‘not much’ to me. It sounds like quite a lot.”

“Barely. It’s just being a decent person.”

“Don’t minimize it, Draco. There are plenty of people who would not do what you’ve done.” Draco stared at her, mind whirling over this. A moment later, as if that already weren’t enough to make him reevaluate his whole existence, his therapist furrowed her eyebrows and asked thoughtfully, “And, why call yourself a decent person like that’s a bad thing?”

To that, he had absolutely no answer. He stared at her more.

She was infuriatingly good at her job.

After a beat, she asked another question. “I wonder. Do you think Harry is a charity case?”

“No,” Draco said immediately. Then he realised how she’d tricked him, and tried to backtrack. “That’s different. He doesn’t _need_ me like I need him.”

“I think ‘need’ is a vague term that can have many different meanings,” she argued. “For example, would you agree that it would be unhealthy for Harry to live his life thinking he deserved his trauma?”

Draco crossed his arms. “Of course it would be.”

“And you said you comfort him. Do you think it would be a problem if he did not have that comfort?”

“Okay, I get it. Yes, he should have all those things.”

“Then it sounds like you’re doing something for him that he does need.”

Draco glared at the wall. He hated what she said. He hated that it made sense.

He hated that he loved Potter so fucking much.

“Draco,” she said. “I understand you feel like you’re inconveniencing him. That’s a very upsetting way to feel, especially when you care about the other person as much as you care about Harry. But, I want you to understand that your feelings on this are not objective fact. You bring so much goodness into his life. You are not a burden.”

Draco’s throat felt tight. He chewed on his lip. A few moments passed in silence.

“I think this activity has been really helpful,” the therapist said. “I did ask you for three, though. So, can you think of a third positive you bring into his life? Of course, I know there are really many more than three.”

Draco shrugged again. His mind flicked to one immediately, and he couldn’t help supposing that his ease in thinking of examples might prove her point. He replied, “He used to get really bad nightmares before we started sharing a room, and they go away when we’re together. And in general, whenever he’s stressed, we have a system where I help distract him and calm him down.”

He heard a scoff of disbelief, and he risked a glance at her. She was shaking her head in amazement. “Draco! You’re telling me _you_ help him sleep, too?”

“Well, it…” he began, trying to make sense of why suddenly he felt so ridiculous. “It’s not the same.”

“What I’m hearing is that you help him cope with his trauma, calm him when he’s upset, and help him sleep. Is that not exactly what you say he does for you?”

Draco shook his head emphatically.

But, to be entirely honest, the more he processed the words the more he realised she was correct. And it was breaking his brain when she put it that way. “It’s… it’s different,” he said, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.

“It sounds like you both help each other and make each other’s lives better. It doesn’t seem to me like your relationship is imbalanced at all.”

Draco spluttered. His mouth felt dry.

“He has no reason to view you the way you’ve described,” she concluded gently. “It sounds to me like he views you as a friend.”

Her words warmed him despite himself, and loosened a knot in his chest that had been there for what felt like forever.

Draco wasn’t a burden. He and Potter both made each other happy. The two of them were equals. The relief was so sweet he could jump up and down. He basked in the glow of this revelation.

But, it wasn’t perfect, he knew. The revelation only loosened the knot, not removed it. The fact was, Potter viewing him as a friend hurt in its own way, too.

Draco felt like he may as well come clean to her about all of it. He’d waited long enough. Anyway, his nervous brain reminded him, this was their last session before the holiday—if it went badly, at least he wouldn’t have to see her again until after the New Year. He took a deep breath.

“He does,” Draco said. “We are friends. But I also…” He gripped the edges of his chair to get through saying it. “I want him to see me as more than _that_ , too.”

He stared at the floor, no longer having the courage to make eye contact. After a pause, she asked, “What do you want him to see you as?”

Draco buried his face in his hands so she wouldn’t be able to see how red he was getting. “You know what I mean.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, she said, “Do you mean romantically?”

He bit down the embarrassed whine that wanted to escape his throat. He pushed past the dreadful mortification and nodded.

“What do you think is standing in the way of what you want?”

He hesitated. “That’s… sort of a complicated question.”

“How so?”

“Well. We sort of already do that stuff. At least some of it. But it’s not… it’s not how I want it to be.”

“What do you mean?”

This was painful. But, in for a knut, in for a galleon, he supposed. Then he took his head out of his hands and went for it. “We already snog and such. But it’s not how I want, because I’m in love with him and he doesn’t think of me that way.”

 _There_. He’d said it out loud. His heart hammered.

She raised a surprised eyebrow. “Well, what makes you think he doesn’t think of you that way?” she asked.

Merlin, this conversation was just like the one he’d had with Theo. Only, it was worse this time, because now he bloody _loved_ Potter, too.

“He doesn’t. We only do that stuff because he thinks it helps me feel better when I’m anxious, or it helps him when _he’s_ anxious. It’s not because he really wants me. Not the way _I_ want _him_.”

“But what if he did want you? How would you know?”

“Well, he’d…”

Draco paused. That was actually a good point.

“Okay,” he acquiesced. “He doesn’t give excuses anymore when he touches me. I’ve been noticing that for a while now. And sometimes he’ll look at me and I think I really might have a chance with him.”

“Then why don’t you talk to him about it? Ask him how he feels?”

“Because, I’m scared he won’t feel the same!” he burst out.

His chest heaved. This was humiliating. He clenched his hands on the edges of his chair again, but did not take the words back. Softly, he added, “I want to wait until I don’t need him anymore.”

She cocked her head to the side. “How come?”

“I don’t want to use him as a crutch. I… maybe I’m not a charity case, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still rely on him. How could anyone want a relationship with me when I’m so needy?”

“Needing help does not mean you are any less of a wonderful person, or any less worthy of love,” she said seriously.

He sighed. Shrugged.

“I mean it,” she said. “I understand you’re scared. It is a scary thing, to tell someone how you feel.”

Draco nodded. Merlin, was it.

“Of course, your situation is more complicated. Your relationship with Harry directly affects your physical health. So, it’s important to consider what could happen if you two had a falling out.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I have been thinking about that. And, I don’t think I feel the same as I used to. I know I’ve been making progress. At the beginning, I felt like if Potter didn’t stay with me, I’d drop dead. I don’t feel that way anymore.”

“You don’t? Draco! That certainly is news!”

“Yeah. It, er, it’s complicated,” he explained. “I know I still need him, but it’s not the same as it was in the beginning. I feel like if we had a falling out, I could talk to one of my friends, or something, and they could help me with things. And I don’t feel scared talking to doctors, either,” he added, gesturing to her with an ironic smile. “It wouldn’t be ideal, no. But I think with all the work we’ve done, I could survive without him.”

“Oh, I am _so_ happy to hear that!” she declared. She took a moment to grin at him and clap her hands. He blushed.

“I suppose it would be smarter not to mess with the dynamic he and I already have,” he said. “But it’s getting unbearable, being in love with him and not telling saying anything. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out.”

“So you _do_ want to tell him?”

“Yes. Er, I mean, soon. But I don’t want to do it until he can see that I don’t need him anymore.”

“It wouldn’t be enough just to tell him how you’ve improved?”

“No. I don’t only want to _say_ it; I want to show him,” he reasoned. “If I still rely on him, it just sounds like empty words with no real change. I want to _prove_ I don’t need him.”

“How would you prove that?”

He sat forward in his chair. “I want to be able to sleep on my own.”

“I see.” She nodded. “That doesn’t sound very fair to yourself.”

That took him aback. “What do you mean?”

“You seem to be placing a lot of pressure on overcoming your condition. But progress in mental health isn’t linear. Relapses are natural. It may take longer than you want, to see the results you’re hoping for.”

He sighed. She was right, and once again, he hated that. “Maybe. But I don’t think I can be comfortable telling him how I feel until I get to that point.”

She was silent for a moment in thought. Then, she asked, “Where do you stand on You-Know-Who’s name?”

Draco flushed. “That’s another thing Potter’s been helping me with, actually,” he admitted. “I can hear him say it without getting upset. I actually think I might be able to say it myself, soon.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She clapped her hands again. “And how do you feel?”

“I feel really good. Like I’m close to not letting that madman control my life anymore.”

She beamed at him. “Well then! I think that’s a great benchmark to see how far you’ve come.”

Slowly, Draco found himself smiling back. “I guess so.”

“Do you think overcoming your aversion to the name would affect your dynamic with Harry?”

“I… I’m not sure. It’s not the same as the sleeping thing.”

“You’re right. It’s not. But I do think it’s a step in the right direction. And it’s a much more actionable goal than overcoming your insomnia all at once.”

He nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.

His therapist paused, thinking for a moment. Then she added, “Also, I can’t help but notice that you keep referring to Harry as ‘Potter.’ Is there a reason for that?”

Draco shrugged. “That’s just how it always is with us. I call him Potter and he calls me Malfoy.”

“Mmhmm. Have you considered the idea that you two call each other by your surnames in order to maintain distance between you?”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”

“You two seem extremely close in all other regards. But referring to each other by your surnames is a way to keep things formal. When you call him ‘Potter,’ it sounds, to me, like a safety mechanism to keep him at arm’s length.”

Draco had never thought of this before. He was nodding before he knew it. “Do you… do you think I should change that?”

“If you want to decrease the distance between you, then I do think it would be a good idea, yes.”

He considered it. Considered calling Potter _Harry_ , and being called _Draco_ in return. It sounded…

Well. It sounded brilliant.

Maybe this was just the thing he needed, to make the Gryffindor view Draco as more than just a friend.

“I think I’ll do it,” he said.

* * * * *

Potter was there waiting when Draco returned to his room, reading a Quidditch magazine on the bed and already wearing pyjamas. He looked up and smiled at Draco when he entered. The smile was so soft, so beautiful, that Draco thought back to his therapist’s words. _But what if he did want you? How would you know?_

He flushed, feeling his stomach twist. He closed the door behind him and said as casually as he could, “Evening. How are you?”

“All right,” Potter said. “How was therapy?”

“Good,” Draco replied, and he meant it. “I’m gonna miss her these next few weeks.”

“I’m glad you like her so much. She seems like she’s really been helping you.”

“She has been.” Draco stepped closer to the bed. He eyed Potter, as the other boy was distracted putting away the magazine. “How was your day?”

“Good. Happy the term is almost over. I could use a holiday.”

“I know what you mean,” Draco agreed, kicking off his shoes. “Anything interesting happen? Adoring fan try to kidnap you, or something cool like that?”

Potter snorted. “No, nothing cool like that.” Then he paused, looking down and fidgeting with his hands in his lap. “But, er, something did happen today. I… well, I got a letter back from Ron.”

“Oh?” That sobered Draco.

Potter had written to Weasley last night cancelling his trip home for Christmas. Was Weasley furious, like Draco had expected? Was he demanding Potter leave Draco? Was he planning to march up to Hogwarts and challenge Draco to a duel?

“Yeah. He… er. The thing is, he said he wanted to meet you.”

It was like a literal record scratched in Draco’s brain. Hold on a moment… what? “What?”

“I know. He said he wants to get lunch with us and Hermione on Saturday at the Three Broomsticks. I know that probably sounds awful to you, but I feel like I can’t tell him no—especially since I’m not going to see him for Christmas, and…”

“No, I understand,” Draco assured him. His mind was spinning fast, to make up for how it had shorted out a moment before. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“You do?” Potter sounded as incredulous as Draco felt hearing it from his own mouth.

But, Draco had reasons for saying it. For one thing, he could not keep Potter away from his friends. Potter loved them, and they made him genuinely happy. But it was more than that, too. If Draco wanted to be with Potter, wanted to have any sort of longterm relationship with him, then he would have to get along with Potter’s friends.

“I do. I’d love to spend time with him without trying to kill each other.” He thought back and grimaced. “I think the last time we interacted was him punching me in the face.”

Potter laughed loudly, and then gave a guilty smile. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Then it sounds like this could be a nice change of pace. As long as he promises not to hit me again.” He considered this a moment, and added, “Granger, either. She’s stronger than she looks.”

Potter laughed again, and didn’t stop himself this time. He tossed his head back and laughed loudly, and Draco admired the line of his throat and the crinkle of his eyes and the way he sounded when he let himself go.

Fuck, Draco wanted to be with him forever.

“Hey,” he said when Potter had gotten the laughs out of his system. The Gryffindor looked back at him. “I think I want to try saying the name.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes. I feel good about it.”

“Okay. Er… right now?”

Draco shrugged. “Sure, why not? Of course, that is, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” Potter shuffled back against the headboard. “Here, do you want to sit down?”

Draco nodded, and crawled onto the bed. He scooted over until he was against Potter’s side, wrapping an arm around Potter’s middle and leaning his head against the other boy’s shoulder. Potter tensed.

For a moment, he felt still all over. Then he relaxed, and wrapped his arm around Draco, too. Draco smiled and breathed him in.

A minute passed in total silence. But then, Draco took a deep breath, and said quietly, “Voldemort.”

Potter gasped. His hand clenched around Draco’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he said.

“Voldemort,” Draco repeated more loudly, because he could.

“Fuck! Circe, you did it!” He pulled away from Draco’s embrace and wrapped him in a proper, rib-crushing hug. “How do you feel?”

“All right,” Draco replied. He felt lightheaded—light all over, actually. He could scarcely believe it. But it was true.

“I am so proud of you,” Potter whispered in Draco’s ear. He sounded beside himself.

“Me, too,” Draco said back. His insides felt shaky, but he’d _done it_. He’d actually done it. He’d said the Dark Lord’s—no, _Voldemort’s_ —name, out loud.

It wasn’t enough, yet, to make him feel ready to tell Potter how he felt. But it was a start. He was close. With every passing minute, he felt closer to confessing his feelings to Potter.

Maybe after meeting Weasley. Maybe after final exams. Soon. He knew it would be soon.

But for now, he was content to hold Potter against him and celebrate Draco's biggest accomplishment yet. He’d done what he had until recently thought impossible. He had said Voldemort’s name out fucking loud.

He squeezed Potter tightly, and imagined how it would feel to say _I love you_ out loud, too.


	30. Chapter 30

**Harry**

Friday. The last day of classes for the term. They were so close to the end they could taste it.

In Potions, Slughorn gave them a fairly free period, and said students could use class time to revise or ask questions about the material. Harry and Malfoy sat near the corner of the room, next to the cauldron they’d claimed when they’d been working together on Tuesday.

For the first time in his Hogwarts career, Harry felt confident about the material on his Potions exam, so he and Malfoy quickly forewent revising and spent the whole time talking instead.

They talked about how they were sad that Quidditch practice was over until after the holiday, and how they planned to make up for it by flying with each other. “It’s gonna be brilliant, being able to stay out there as long as we want,” Harry said, and Malfoy nodded enthusiastically.

They talked about that party coming up, that Seamus was throwing. “I don’t usually go to parties,” Malfoy said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Loud noise and obnoxious people. What’s to like?”

“I think it’s fun seeing everyone cut loose,” Harry replied with a shrug. “A bit of Firewhiskey doesn’t hurt, either. After a few drinks I’m usually much less annoyed at people being obnoxious.”

“Oh, no. I’m such a lightweight; drinking only makes it worse.” He shook his head. “I think parties are usually more trouble than they’re worth.”

“If you feel that way, we don’t have to go,” Harry said. “Or we can go for a little bit, and leave if you don’t like it.”

Malfoy gave him a look that Harry couldn’t discern. The Slytherin’s eyes seemed rather wide, and his mouth was slightly open. He looked like he could be anything from surprised to embarrassed to… to… whatever it meant when his eyebrows raised like that. “Thanks,” Malfoy said, voice quiet. “Yes, we can go to the party.”

Harry nodded, unsure why Malfoy’d demeanor had shifted. Harry almost asked more questions, but Malfoy quickly changed the subject. “I think we should try to get to Hogsmeade by ten tomorrow. What do you think?”

Malfoy steered the conversation from there, suggesting ideas in that bossy-but-somehow-endearing way of his. By the time Slughorn dismissed the class, they had drafted a plan of action for the next day.

Harry and Malfoy said goodbye and headed off to their respective next classes. As Harry walked away, he let out a breath and tried to make his shoulders relax.

He was always on edge with Malfoy now, it seemed. It took constant strain to keep himself in line, avoiding touching the blond more than necessary—but also trying not to _overdo_ his restriction, lest Malfoy sense something was wrong or lest Harry set off another night of unconscious molesting. And that was all not to mention the strain of forcing himself, both out loud and in his head, to call the Slytherin “Malfoy”. He kept almost giving into the urge and calling him “Draco”, but calling him by his surname was one of Harry’s last defences against cracking under the pressure and revealing how he felt. It was killing him, he thought, reaching a hand up to rub at his stiff neck. It was a wonder he hadn’t gotten an ulcer—although, Harry acknowledged, he still had plenty of time left to develop one.

Fuck, he just loved Malfoy so much. And it was requiring his last shreds of sanity not to yield to it.

He wasn’t even sure what he was hoping for. Every day that went by, in which he was tantalised by Malfoy’s proximity but unable act on it because Malfoy needed him, he felt himself lose his mind more. However, the alternative was endlessly more terrible. Harry was sure that the moment Malfoy got over his insomnia issues, and no longer needed Harry, Malfoy wouldn’t want to be around him nearly so much anymore. Everything would change, Harry’s purpose done, and Harry would never again get the joy of spending days and nights wrapped in the arms of the boy he loved.

Harry shook his head to tear himself out of the distressing thought. Maybe Malfoy would want to stay close friends, Harry negotiated in his mind. Maybe they could revise together next term. At any rate, Malfoy would probably still want to play on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. So at least there were some things Harry could keep.

But he knew it wasn’t enough, and would never be enough. If it was torture for Harry now, to snog Malfoy passionately against a mattress, then it would certainly be worlds worse, having to maintain any distance from him.

Harry tried to take deep breaths and distract himself from thinking about it more. Ultimately, it would be Malfoy’s decision what happened. Malfoy would decide what was best for himself, and Harry would respect his wishes. He would do whatever he could to make Malfoy happy.

And if it broke Harry’s heart in the process, then that was his own business.

* * * * *

**Draco**

Draco tried to keep his noises to a minimum as he sucked on Potter’s tongue that afternoon. His hands clasped around Potter’s wrists and pressed them into the pillow on either side of Potter’s head. For the millionth time in the past few minutes, Draco wished he could relieve the throbbing pressure on his cock, but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake as Tuesday night. He forced his hips to stay hovering above the other boy and not touching anything.

They had returned to Draco’s room after class ended for the day. Draco was so thrilled about the end of the term, and so excited about the prospect of spending the holiday with Potter, that he’d been seized by the urge to celebrate. This was compounded by his memory of Potions class earlier, in which Potter had taken as a given that he and Draco would go to the party together or not at all. Every time Draco thought about this, he melted a little bit more.

So, when they’d arrived to the bedroom, Draco had managed to restrain himself for thirty whole seconds, allowing Potter to kick off his shoes and remove his tie before Draco had tackled him onto the bed.

Draco had swallowed Potter’s responding yelp. From there, the sounds of confusion had quickly dissolved into moans of pleasure. His mouth was so warm, and so wet, and he’d opened himself right up to Draco. His hands had reached up to twine in Draco’s hair, and they’d stayed there until Draco had captured his wrists, holding him down and keeping him totally at Draco’s mercy.

Fuck, he was so perfect. Draco loved him completely and utterly. And the way he was whining and straining to kiss Draco harder and begging for more with everything but words…. well. It was too sexy to be legal.

Draco would give anything to snake a hand down and make Potter come. He’d make it last, too, drive Potter so mad he forgot everything but Draco’s name. He’d render Potter a sobbing, quivering mess, before he finally let the Gryffindor finish. Then Draco would find a Pensieve and pay any money necessary to get that memory saved forever.

But those could only remain fantasies, at least for now. The last time they had gone farther than snogging, Potter had pulled away in distress. Clearly, he didn’t want more than just this, so Draco would have to respect his wishes.

Luckily, it wasn’t like snogging Potter was something to complain about. If this was all Draco got to do for the rest of his life, he would count that as a net win.

He gave Potter’s wrists another squeeze, and relished how Potter shivered in response. _I love you_ , Draco wanted to say. The words were on the tip of his tongue, and so he pushed his tongue farther into Potter’s mouth to make sure he wouldn’t say it accidentally. Now was not the time to reveal such things. Now was the time to lay the groundwork, so that Potter would be the least likely to reject Draco out of hand when he did reveal it.

Although, now that he thought about it… that did remind him.

Draco pulled away from Potter’s mouth, and they both panted hotly in the air.

“Hey,” Draco said. “I was thinking.” He paused, his nerve momentarily fleeing. Was he really going to do this?

His right thumb rubbed gentle circles over Potter’s soft inner wrist. Potter sighed, and did not open his eyes or attempt to speak. He was so beautiful.

Draco thought back to his therapist’s advice. _If you want to decrease the distance between you_ …

He steeled himself and promptly blurted, “Isn’t it strange that you and I call each other by our surnames?”

Potter’s muscles tensed under Draco. His breaths got quiet. He didn’t say anything.

“I think it is,” Draco said. “Look at us. We should be well past that.” He sat back on Potter’s thighs, a few maddening but necessary inches from his lap. He resisted the urge to glance down and see if Potter was hard. “We use our first names when there’s some sort of crisis, but we keep going back to surnames right after. It makes no sense. It’s about time we gave up the juvenile practice I started when I was a pretentious brat. Or, well, when I was a _bigger_ pretentious brat.” Draco laughed at his own joke, and Potter smiled slightly, though his face looked somewhat pained. “From now on, I’d like to call you ‘Harry,’” he concluded. “Is that all right with you?”

For a moment, the brunet stayed totally motionless. Draco considered releasing his wrists, but didn’t.

And then, slowly, Potter nodded.

“Brilliant!” Draco said. “And you should call me Draco.”

The Gryffindor’s eyes remained closed. He swallowed. He nodded again.

“Lovely,” Draco said happily. “ _Harry_.”

Harry seemed to flinch. But it was so quick, and gone a second later, that Draco was sure he’d imagined it. “Go on,” Draco pressed. “Your turn.” He tried not to sound too eager, but he was practically dying to hear his name from Harry’s mouth again.

Harry didn’t react for a few long seconds. Draco wondered if something might be terribly wrong. But just when he thought he might have to ask if everything was okay, Harry said quietly, “Draco.”

Fuck, that was amazing. “See? I told you it was about time,” he said, and dove down and reattached his mouth to Harry’s. Harry inhaled sharply through his nose, but was soon craning his neck upward to smash their mouths together insistently. Draco figured that the strain in his muscles accounted for why Harry’s whole body seemed to be shaking.

Merlin, Draco could call him Harry now. He really could, and he didn’t have to stop himself.

Draco kissed him passionately and lost himself in the feeling. He could call him Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry. The boy in his arms was his Harry.

Now, just like his therapist had predicted, there was one less thing keeping them distant from each other. They could call each other by their first names, and no longer feel like the forced formality stood in the way of them being together. He felt like the final barrier had fallen down, and now all they needed was one small push and they would be in a relationship for real.

He wondered if Harry could feel the difference that the name made, too.

* * * * *

**Harry**

It was official. Harry was going to lose his mind.

That evening, the two of them got snacks from the kitchens to eat while playing cards, and though this usually brought him joy, Harry could barely focus on it now. The Slytherin kept insisting they use each other’s first names the whole time, and with successive utterance, Harry felt himself crack a little bit more. He was at his wit’s end.

Every time Draco said Harry’s name, Harry felt all his blood rush away from his brain and toward his groin, leaving him both lightheaded and painfully turned on. And if that weren’t bad enough, now that Harry had the invitation to call him _Draco_ , it was all Harry wanted to do. And every time he did, he felt himself cave a little bit more. “Draco” had become synonymous with “I love you” in his head, and it was getting increasingly difficult not to blurt out the latter now that nothing stopped him from saying the former.

Calling him “Malfoy” had been Harry’s final refuge against his feelings for the other boy. Now, even that was working against him. Stronger people than Harry had broken down under less pressure than this. He had no idea how much longer he could hold out.

At least, he could not deny how objectively wonderful it was to hear Draco say his name and to say it in return. The wonderfulness was exactly the problem, yes. But if Harry was going to lose his mind, there were worse ways to do it than this.

* * * * *

**Draco**

The next morning, they woke up early and got breakfast together in the Great Hall with the early-risers. It was the first time they’d sat together in the Great Hall, but Draco knew it would be the first of many, since they’d surely be doing so over the holiday, too.

Draco no longer felt worried about being seen in public with Harry—hadn’t, ever since the Gryffindor had made clear that he was all right with Draco joining him on the Quidditch team. That was yet another reason Draco felt good about the trajectory of their relationship.

 _Soon_ , he thought to himself yet again. _I’ll tell him how I feel soon_.

“Can you pass the pitcher?” Harry asked softly. Everything about him seemed soft and reserved this morning, Draco couldn’t help but note. It was probably because they’d be meeting up with Weasley and Granger for lunch; Draco couldn’t deny his own nerves about that, either.

“Sure…” Draco said, passing it over, “…Harry.”

It felt heavenly to say. Out loud, to the Gryffindor, just like he’d been dreaming to do for so long. He was maybe a bit addicted to it.

Harry flushed, and his hand jerked as he poured his pumpkin juice. A few drops of spilled onto the table. “Draco,” Harry replied quietly, and then promptly chugged the entire glass with his eyes shut tight.

All right, so he was maybe acting slightly strange. But again, Draco figured it was surely nothing more than nerves about their impending outing to Hogsmeade.

They finished breakfast and bundled into the winter gear they’d brought downstairs with them. Draco couldn’t help but admire how Harry’s hair poked out under his had and framed his face. Draco was maybe staring besottedly, but he could scarcely help it. Luckily, Harry appeared too distracted to notice.

With that, they began their walk to Hogsmeade.

It was cold outside, but only a thin layer of snow coated the ground, and previous foot traffic had melted the snow on the paths Draco and Harry took. The journey lasted about twenty minutes altogether, but this did not bother Draco like it usually did. Usually, he did not have Harry to pass the time with.

They talked all the while, and though Draco enjoyed it, he could not miss how Harry remained a bit edgy. Draco took this as a good enough excuse to reach out and join their gloved hands together. When he did so, Harry startled a bit and seemed to trip over his own feet.

Harry flashed Draco a nervous smile, and before Draco could ask if he was okay, Harry said, “So, Flitwick, right?” and launched them into a conversation about what might be on the Charms exam. Draco was perplexed, and Harry’s behaviour was making him feel rather on edge himself. However, he got to keep Harry’s hand in his own for the rest of the walk, so he supposed he couldn’t be too upset about any of it.

They arrived, and the village looked as much like a winter wonderland as always. It was beautiful, and it was all so much better because Draco had Harry by his side. He also felt glad that the cold effectively disguised his blush, because he remained all too aware that Hogwarts students typically came here for the purpose of romantic dates.

The two of them drifted between stores, window-shopping and dipping inside to peruse, and Draco had to admit that it was quite fun indeed. Even Harry seemed to mellow out as time went on, soon pointing out absurd book titles in Tomes and Scrolls and making sarcastic gift suggestions in Gladrags Wizardwear. Draco was laughing more often than he wasn’t, and he had the persistent feeling that he could spend every day with Harry for the rest of his life without ever getting tired of him.

“I’m not supposed to go to Zonko’s, ’cause they’re a competitor of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” Harry said, out of breath from laughter, as he pointed to something in the joke shop window. “But _Merlin_ , I’d kill to see the look on Percy’s face if I got him that.”

“Maybe you can ask Weasley to make one special just for you,” Draco suggested, giggling at the object in the window.

“Maybe—though I wouldn’t put it past Ron or George to steal the idea for themselves,” Harry said, and then pulled Draco’s hand to steer him toward Honeydukes.

By the time twelve thirty rolled around, they’d gotten gifts for everyone on their lists, and were chatting outside the Three Broomsticks on a bench that they’d adorned with heating charms. Draco made a mental plan to part ways with Harry after lunch, so that he could pick up his gift for Harry in private.

At around twelve forty-five, Harry suggested they go inside to get a table. Draco swallowed and nodded. Anxiety rose in his stomach as they stood up and approached the entrance.

Lunch with the Golden Trio. _Lunch with the Golden Trio._ He did his best to keep his breathing even, but was not particularly successful.

Would they hate him? Would Weasley hex him? Would Granger decide she could no longer tolerate Draco’s presence and throw a drink in his face? Then, would Harry decide that he couldn’t be around a person whom his friends didn’t like? Draco’s mind spun wildly and unhelpfully, thinking up endless scenarios that ranged from Relatively Likely all the way to Hippogriff Crashes Through Roof.

Harry seemed to notice Draco’s nerves. They got a booth near the corner of the room, and Harry appeared to drop the last ounce of reservation he’d been carrying with him. He slid in next to Draco and pressed their sides together, twining their fingers under the table. “It’s all right,” he said, in that confident way he said things when he was gearing up for battle. “It’s just lunch. They’re my best friends. If you’re nice, they’ll be nice.”

Draco might have been inspired to believe this a bit more if he actually thought Harry fully believed it himself.

But, there was nothing for it. He’d have to face the Golden Trio eventually.

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before Weasley and Granger showed up.

* * * * *

**Harry**

Harry had been watching the door, and when he saw his friends walk in, he released Draco’s hand and stood up, waving so they spotted him. Hermione smiled and rushed toward their table, while Ron took a moment to stare at Draco.

Draco had remained seated; he seemed momentarily distracted by Hermione, who was sitting down noisily across from him and asking Draco how his morning had been. Draco didn’t immediately notice Ron, who was walking over slowly and eyeing him as though to verify Draco wasn’t a figment of some dream.

“Hey,” Harry greeted when Ron got close enough. “Good to see you.” He tried to sound casual and happy, though his palms were sweating from nerves.

“Good to see you, too, mate,” Ron agreed. He leaned over the table and clapped Harry on the back. Harry attempted to sink into the hug as much as he could, and took a moment to try breathing properly. Ron was still his best friend, he reminded himself. Ron loved him, and wanted Harry to be happy. This would be all right.

Wouldn’t it?

Harry’s apprehension came back full swing when they all sat down. He had originally planned on sitting across from Ron, with Hermione in front of Draco, to provide a buffer for any potential problems. But Ron wasn’t having it. After fetching them all a round of Butterbeer, he walked over to Draco’s end of the table with purpose and motioned for Hermione to budge up. While she flashed a glance at Harry to say she shared his concern, she complied with Ron’s request.

Ron sat down in front of Draco and leaned back, folding his arms and watching the blond carefully. Draco watched him back, holding himself up straight but still seeming to shrink under Ron’s gaze. The table was quiet and tense.

Finally, Ron said, “Voldemort was a right cunt.”

“Ron!” Hermione gasped. Harry felt his mouth drop open. He turned to look at Draco, whose eyes had gone wide and body gone rigid.

Harry wanted to say something, to ask Ron what the hell he was thinking or to try and comfort Draco, but he felt rooted to the spot. Something about the way Ron was looking at Draco, and the way Draco was looking back, made Harry feel like he should stand down. He waited with bated breath.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Draco said slowly, “Yes. I… yes, he really was.”

Ron eyed him more, calculating. Then, he nodded, uncrossed his arms, and raised his Butterbeer. “Cheers to that,” he said, and drank.

Wordlessly, Draco grabbed his own bottle, raised it, and drank, too.

Harry and Hermione gaped at them speechlessly. Ron and Draco didn’t look back at them or acknowledge that anything strange had just happened. Though Harry had been bracing himself for some fight to break out, the two seemed at ease, like they’d come to some silent understanding. Harry felt like he might need to go get his glasses checked.

Whatever tension had radiated from the table had dissipated. Harry never would’ve thought it possible, especially not so quickly, but he felt as though his need to worry had fled away like mist on a summer morning. Hermione seemed to know it, too, as she shot Harry an incredulous smile and reached for her own drink. “Cheers,” she said, “to the past being the past.”

“Cheers,” Harry found himself agreeing. He clinked bottles with her and chugged half his Butterbeer in one go.

This was definitely going to be a strange lunch, he knew. However, he no longer found that he minded very much.

Before long, they had gotten their food and were talking about things wholly unrelated to the war or their pasts or anything difficult. Ron thanked Draco for the advice on getting his mum hand towels, and then that turned into him telling them updates on his family. They talked about life, and the shop, and school, and soon it felt like the world before eighth year ceased to matter.

Or, no—it _did_ matter, and it influenced every one of them. But it ceased to be the only important about their lives. It ceased to rule them, just as fear of Voldemort’s name had ceased to rule Draco. Now they were just four people, having lunch together on a winter afternoon, enjoying each other’s company and even laughing a fair bit. Ron and Draco still seemed a bit iffy on each other, but in a way that no longer felt insurmountable. Harry found himself thinking that it was nothing a little more time couldn’t fix, and then thinking that they had all the time in the world to make it so.

They must have been together for around two hours by the time Draco said he had to leave. He stood up and leaned toward Harry. “I’ll see you back at the castle,” he said, gathering his bags. He smiled, and glanced away quickly.

“Are you sure? We can…”

“No, don’t worry,” Draco assured him. “You should have time to catch up, just the three of you. I’ll see you later.” Then he straightened up and said solemnly to Ron and Hermione, “It was lovely spending the afternoon with you.”

“You, too,” Hermione replied, and Ron nodded seriously.

Draco gave another awkward smile and ducked away. Then he exited the pub and took his warm presence with him. Harry sighed, simultaneously missing him and glad that he’d left without anything having gone wrong first.

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Hermione said when he’d gone. “I think he’s leaving to get you your present.”

“What?” Harry asked, breaking out of his thoughts. He whipped his head back up to stare at the door Draco had disappeared through. “What do you mean?”

“Your Christmas present,” she said. She placed her hand on Ron’s where it rested on the table, easing into more affection now that it was just the three of them. “That’s why he wanted to leave without you.”

“You… you think?” Harry had never pictured Draco getting him a present. Or, yes, he supposed in the back of his mind that he’d known it was bound to happen—but just like with his thoughts on where he’d be spending Christmas, Harry hadn’t contemplated it too hard consciously. “How do you know?”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “You came to Hogsmeade to do Christmas shopping, and he wanted to split up without joining back together until he’d gone to the castle first. Obviously he’s getting you your present now.”

“Yeah,” agreed Ron. “That’s not to mention the way he was looking at you.”

“What?” Harry demanded. “How was he looking at me?”

This time, it was Ron’s turn to roll his eyes. “You know, that nervous way. With the… the shy smiling. Like he wants to keep you happy and hopes you won’t ask more questions.” At Harry’s confused face, Ron scoffed incredulously. “Come on. Even _I_ noticed.”

Harry shook his head and exhaled hard, sagging in his seat. He supposed he could picture the expression Ron was referencing after all. Draco wore that look relatively often, now that Harry thought about it. “I guess so. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“And here I thought you were incapable of not paying attention to Malfoy,” Ron said with a snort, making Harry flush hotly. Then Ron took a swig of his drink and set it down. “Anyway, the verdict is in,” he announced. “Malfoy’s pretty decent now. I’ll give you that.”

“You—really?” Harry asked, sitting up with a start.

“Yeah. Still a bit of a ponce, but not nearly such a dick. And I couldn’t help but notice he didn’t say a bigoted slur even once today.”

Hermione nodded enthusiastically at Ron. “I told you. He’s really changed since the war.”

“Right. Didn’t think it was possible, but here we are. I just had to see it for myself.” Ron tossed a chip in the air and caught it in his mouth. “So, there you go. You officially have my blessing, Harry.”

Harry flushed again. “Thanks,” he said. And though he couldn’t shake his lingering apprehension and embarrassment, Harry really meant it. He picked up his second Butterbeer, which he mostly hadn’t touched yet. Finally, he felt up to drinking the rest. “I’m sorry again, about Christmas. Are you sure you’re okay with it?”

“Course,” said Ron. “I’m not gonna make you spend it away from your boyfriend.”

Harry sprayed his entire mouthful on the floor.

Hermione yelped. She jumped up and vanished the mess while Harry remained choking and spluttering in his seat. “He’s—what—he’s not my—my boyfriend,” he rasped out.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean he’s not?”

“We’re… we’re just friends! Two people can spend time together without… without it being…”

Ron stared at him for a moment, head cocked. “But don’t you two kiss and all?”

That got Harry choking again. “ _Hermione_!”

“Sorry,” she said, and at least had the manners to blush. “I couldn’t keep it from Ron forever. But regardless, Harry, you know he’s right. You and Malfoy spend all your time together, and cuddle, and kiss, and do all sorts of, well, boyfriend-y things.”

“But we’re _not_ boyfriends! He’s… he’s _him_ and I’m _me_.”

Even as he said it, the words felt wrong in his mouth.

“That hasn’t been enough to stop you for a long time,” Hermione pointed out. She was correct. But Harry shook his head, not sure how to argue back but feeling distinctly like he was going to drop dead any moment.

“I’m not sure what all this fuss is about,” said Ron bluntly. “You act like boyfriends, and you fancy him. There’s not much more to it than that.”

“Ron,” Hermione said disapprovingly. “I wanted him to figure it out on his own.”

“It was taking too bloody long,” he grumbled.

But Harry could barely hear Ron’s exasperated muttering, because his entire brain was short-circuiting.

Harry wanted Draco. And apparently people _knew_ he did. And, oh, Merlin—

“That was what you were to get me to realise this whole time?” he burst out, more of a pained gasp than a real question. Her “plan” was never about Harry being able to want Draco less—it had always been about making Harry realise how _much_ he wanted him.

“Yes, it was,” she admitted. “But don’t you see why? Doesn’t it all make sense now?”

Yes, of course it did. It all made perfect bloody sense. And like an idiot, it had taken Harry forever to catch on. And now apparently they were… oh fuck, they were…

“Gods,” he croaked, burying his face in his hands.

“Harry, it’s okay,” Hermione said. And, when he didn’t respond, “Come on. What’s wrong?”

Everything was wrong. Holy hell, absolutely everything.

“We are basically dating, aren’t we?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Er…” Hermione said slowly. Harry didn’t bother looking up; he _knew_ she and Ron were exchanging one of those telepathic glances. The glances they gave each other, where they told each other wordlessly just how mad they thought Harry was. “Well, I mean…”

“Fuck, how could I be so stupid?” Harry demanded. He tore his hands away from his face to bury them in his hair.

He and Draco spent so much of their time together. They bloody _snogged_ , for crying out loud—and in various states of undress, too—on a daily fucking basis! Now that Harry thought about it, it was absolutely insane. All of it. In everything but label alone, Harry and Draco were in a _relationship_.

“I thought I was being careful,” he said. “But we… Circe…”

“Seriously, what are you talking about?” asked Ron, sounding genuinely confused. “You’re both happy, aren’t you? What changes just because you call it boyfriends or not? What’s the difference?”

“The difference is he doesn’t _know_ ,” Harry said, horror rising in him. “We’re in a relationship without his bloody consent. It’s… I feel that way from my end, yes. So, congratulations, Hermione: you figured it out weeks before I did.” He knew his tone was getting angry, but he couldn’t help it. He shook his head hard, dismayed. “But that’s not what _he_ wants. I thought I was keeping it under control…. I didn’t notice how far I’ve already let it get. Fuck, without me even noticing I let it get to the point we’re basically _boyfriends_ and I’m not even supposed to look at him that way.”

He felt his breathing speed up. Harry was such a fool, and he’d ruined everything, and he was hurting Draco, and how had he not bloody noticed that they were already…?

“I still don’t understand,” Hermione said. “Why aren’t you supposed to? He seems to enjoy all of this perfectly well.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry said forcefully. “He doesn’t know how I feel. He only seems that way because he thinks I’m just doing this as a friend.”

“He… thinks you’re just snogging him as a friend,” Ron echoed dubiously.

“Exactly.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. Then, Ron said, “Sorry, mate, but that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. And I work with George every day.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t understand,” Harry snapped, more upset with himself than anyone else. “I’m sorry, I just… listen. We have a specific arrangement, and it doesn’t involve me having feelings for him. All right? But now I’ve gone and let my feelings get in the way of things, and make it so much more complicated.”

“So… what do you plan to do?” Ron asked. He still appeared sceptical that the problem was even a problem, which frustrated Harry to no end.

“I don’t know. I’ll… I’ll figure it out. Maybe talk to him, after exams are over. Make him understand I didn’t mean it to get so out of control.”

“Well, I certainly support talking to him,” Hermione said. “But be careful. I understand you feel confused, but make sure you’re nice to him about it. All right?”

Harry folded his arms, feeling surly. Of course he wanted to be careful and to be nice to Draco. Those rules were just about the only things he thought about these days.

“Just talk to him,” Hermione went on. “Tell him how you feel. That’s what you should have been doing this whole time.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Harry muttered.

Loath as he was to admit it, he figured he could not avoid confronting Draco about the situation any longer. He knew it was time to tell Draco how he felt.

After exams were over, Harry would explain that he’d never meant it to go so far, and that he was intensely sorry for the whole thing. He would promise that he only wanted to do things that Draco requested, and not a single act more past that. Hopefully, if Harry was insistent enough about it, Draco would believe him and forgive Harry’s recklessness thus far.

He stayed in the Three Broomsticks for another half hour or so, to reduce the likelihood that he’d run into Draco in the shops. Then, when Harry could take stewing no more, he said, “I’m gonna go.” He stood up, and at Hermione’s inquisitive look, admitted, “Since we’ve split up and I won’t see him again until I’ve gone back to the castle, I may as well go get him his Christmas gift.”

Hermione squealed and clapped her hands, and Harry turned away before he had to see Ron grin at him. He sighed, bundling back up and dreading how hopelessly in love he was with Draco Malfoy.

He bade his friends goodbye, telling them he loved them and wishing Ron a happy Christmas. Then, he headed off to pick up some sweets he had seen earlier in Honeydukes, because he knew from years of watching Draco receive gifts from his mother exactly what he liked. Harry knew that this alone wasn’t enough for a Christmas present, but he realised that he’d been planning exactly what else to give Draco for a while now unconsciously.

Sweets and something else. Something Harry was certain Draco would like. Something Harry had to distract himself from thinking too hard about, or he’d talk himself out of it.

He strode into Honeydukes and let the bright colors and powerful scents hypnotise him, so he wouldn’t have to worry about anything more for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read all your comments and I mean from the bottom of my heart that you guys are the sweetest humans ever. I hope you’ve had happy holidays and that you’re staying as safe, healthy, and happy as possible <3


	31. Chapter 31

**Harry**

Harry returned to the castle and tried to quell his panic as he thought of seeing Draco again. By the time he reached the entrance to the common room, he was sweating, and it wasn’t from the long climb to the tower. His heart rate had never fully returned to normal since the revelation in the pub, that he and Draco were basically boyfriends. He doubted he’d ever fully recover from that, to be honest.

He stepped into the common room—blissfully empty of Draco’s presence for the time being—and once again had to readjust the bags in his hands so his damp hands wouldn’t lose their grip.

He kept his head down as he made a beeline for his bedroom. When he reached it, he closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.

He and Draco were essentially dating. Harry thought of this and felt a headache grow. All of their acts mirrored those of an actual couple; pretty much the only thing separating the pair from being real boyfriends was the label. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if all of Hogwarts thought they were, anyway—what with how they spent all their time together, in class and out, and even played on the bloody Quidditch team as a package deal. He couldn’t believe how he hadn’t realised before, and he wondered just how many signs there had been that he’d totally missed.

Well, he knew now that that he had to do something about this. He didn’t know what, exactly, they could possibly do to fix the mess he’d made, but there had to be something. He would break things off with Draco this instant if he could, to make sure no more damage could be done. Except, Harry _couldn’t_ break things off, because of how Draco needed him. It was a serious quandary—but, he was resolved to discuss this with Draco soon. The moment they were finished with exams, they would talk about it, and hopefully Draco would forgive him. Then they could figure out together what sort of arrangement could work moving forward, that would best suit Draco’s health.

Resolved, though still immensely apprehensive, Harry decided to do something productive and sufficiently distracting until he had to face Draco again. So, he set about wrapping all the Christmas gifts. He started with Luna’s first, because hers had the farthest to travel—all the way to the Australian outback, where she was working at a nonprofit for endangered magical creatures.

Thinking of Luna, Harry couldn’t help but feel a sharp twist of self-deprecating humour. After all, he’d always rolled his eyes at how out-of-touch Luna was, but now he felt like he could truly sympathise. However foolish and oblivious people had ever considered the girl, Harry was fairly certain he had surpassed her by far.

Honestly, a boyfriend? A bloody accidental boyfriend? He shook his head at himself. Some things were too ridiculous for words.

He set to work wrapping.

* * * * *

**Draco**

After a few hours of lounging alone in his room, Draco sought Harry out. He knocked on Harry’s door, and promptly heard the other boy fumbling inside the room. A few moments later, the door opened a crack, and the Gryffindor’s head popped out. “Hello,” he greeted, looking a bit flustered. “What’s, er, what is it?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to play Exploding Snap.” Draco held up the deck he’d brought over. “That is, unless you’re busy.”

“No, not busy. Sorry, I’m just…” Harry squeezed himself through the door without opening it further, and shut it behind him the moment he’d cleared it. “My room is a bit… er, well, you can’t see it right now.” He looked a bit nervous, not meeting Draco’s eyes, and Draco wondered if his mounting suspicion was correct: that Harry had been wrapping his Christmas present. Warmth flared in his chest at the thought.

“All right, we can go to my room if you want,” Draco offered.

For a moment, Harry look torn, like part of him wanted to say no. But before Draco could say anything else, Harry was replying, “Sure. Sounds like a plan.”

With that, Harry pushed forward and marched resolutely toward Draco’s room. He seemed off, almost the way he had been this morning. “Are you sure nothing else is going on?” Draco asked, following at a hurried pace to catch up with him. “It’s all right if you’re busy.”

“No, I’m all yours,” Harry assured him. Then, he appeared to cringe with his full body. He added quickly, “I mean, I—I mean I’m not busy. Let’s, let’s just go, all right? Exploding Snap. Brilliant game. Love when things explode, don’t you?”

Confused, Draco followed him into his room. He didn’t ask more questions, though he eyed Harry warily.

They set themselves up on the floor of Draco’s room, and Draco dealt them each a hand of cards, arranging the rest between them in their proper configurations on the ground. Then they began playing.

Although Harry played the game just fine, he seemed troubled. When either of them attempted to make conversation, it never stuck for more than a few back-and-forths. It was not difficult to tell Harry was disturbed; Draco could practically feel it radiating off of him.

“So,” Draco began after a bit. “How was your time with your friends after I left?”

Harry swallowed, seeming to become more anxious at the question. “Fine. Brilliant. Thanks for asking.”

Draco furrowed his eyebrows, nerves mounting. Something was clearly wrong. He felt his heart sink as he predicted what the problem might be. “Do they hate me?”

Harry’s head snapped up and he looked scandalised by the suggestion. “ _No_ ,” he said forcefully. “Never. They think you’re brilliant. Today was _amazing_ , Draco; you’ve got nothing to worry about. All right?”

Draco swallowed, unsure how much he believed Harry. He wanted it to be true—Merlin, how he wanted it. But he was so scared, so sure he couldn’t possibly have won the whole Golden Trio over. Surely…

“ _All right_?” Harry repeated, voice firm and authoritative (and, Draco had to admit, painfully sexy).

“All right,” Draco conceded. Harry nodded, and swiftly dealt the next card for the game.

They kept on playing. As they did, Draco thought about what Harry had said.

It had been a short conversation, yes, but it was extremely important to Draco all the same. He was touched by Harry’s insistence; the Gryffindor seemed genuinely offended at the idea his friends would hate Draco. And, it meant everything to Draco, that Harry was so determined to think highly of him.

And, more than that, it was an immense relief that Harry was so certain the lunch had gone well. Draco had hoped that it had, and he had even enjoyed the affair quite a bit on his end. But he’d been too scared to let himself fully believe the event had been a success, sure he’d made some unknown faux pas—or that the memory of his past actions would be too much for Harry’s friends to overcome, regardless—and that the lunch had only served to reanimate everyone’s disdain for his existence. However, now that Harry had given him such firm assurance to the contrary, Draco felt the weight of his worry ease off him.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger might actually think Draco was all right. If that was true, then it would mean that all of them could have a greater number of positive interactions in the future. Draco imagined it, feeling a rush at the idea of all that this would entail:

Draco wouldn’t have to fear spending time with Harry’s friends, and Harry wouldn’t have to feel miserable at the prospect either. They would not have to feel stress about it anymore, either—there would be no concerns that Harry couldn’t talk about his friends to Draco, no fears that Draco should avoid any events that the Golden Trio would attend. They could all actually be happy in each other’s company.

And of course, their approval of Draco today meant something even more pressing to him. If they really didn’t mind him, then that might even mean they wouldn’t try to stop Harry from dating Draco for real, if Draco managed to convince him to give that a try. His chest warmed at the thought, and he tried not to let his excitement show too plainly on his face.

However, Harry did not look in the business of noticing Draco’s facial expressions anyway; he seemed practically allergic to looking at Draco now, staring down at his cards with a look of severe agitation.

Draco wanted to enjoy himself, wanted to lose himself in the happy revelation of lunch’s success and in the enjoyment of the current card game. However, he couldn’t fully let himself go, even though by twenty minutes in he was winning by quite a decent margin, because of Harry’s increasingly distressing behaviour.

Despite the brunet’s insistence that the lunch had gone well, there was clearly still something bothering him. Every time Draco glanced at Harry, he looked more flustered. In fact, before long, a sheen of sweat had gathered on Harry’s forehead, even though the room was no warmer than usual.

“Are you well?” Draco finally asked. “You look a bit peaky.”

“No, I—I’m fine,” Harry insisted, looking off to the side instead of at Draco. In his distractedness, the hand holding his cards slackened, and allowed Draco a glimpse at his deck.

“Careful,” Draco said, reaching out and pushing Harry’s hand back up.

The moment Draco’s fingers made contact, Harry seemed to startle. His whole body jolted, and he yanked his hand away as if burned. Draco gaped at him.

“R…right, got it,” Harry said belatedly, pulling his cards against his chest. His voice sounded almost strangled.

Draco stared more. This was getting bizarre, if it hadn’t been already. “Seriously. Is something wrong?” he asked, more wary this time. “Do you think you might be ill?”

“No,” Harry grumbled, shaking his head. Draco was not convinced. At Draco’s sceptical look, Harry sighed almost exasperatedly and put his cards down. “I’m just distracted,” he said. “I’m stressed about exams and… and Christmas presents. I’ve been wrapping them. In fact, I think I should get back to that now.”

So Draco had been right about what Harry was up to in his room. Normally, he might have been inclined to celebrate. However, he couldn’t even enjoy this fact, because of how perturbed he was about Harry’s whole behaviour right now.

“Why?” Draco asked, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. “What’s the rush?”

“I just want to.” Harry said it almost snappishly, and Draco was taken aback by the tone. Harry paused, seeming to register this, and added more softly, “I, er, love Christmas. I want to make sure everything is perfect. So I want to get to work on it as soon as possible.”

Draco nodded slowly. Yes, he supposed. This made sense. Surely there was no other reason for Harry to seem so agitated. “All right. I admit, I feel rather similar,” Draco said with a shrug. “I always hated waiting until Christmas to open my presents.” Then he let out a laugh, and confessed, “Every year I’d pressure my parents to let me open them just a little sooner, a little sooner. By fifteen, I was opening my presents nearly a week early.” He shook his head at himself, embarrassed but unable to hide a grin.

Those were such happy memories. They made him smile whenever he conjured them up. And Merlin… he would feel the absence of that sort of thing this Christmas. He wouldn’t even receive presents from his parents year, let alone get to open them early. He felt his smile wither, and he couldn’t suppress a sigh at the thought of all the things from his past that he would miss.

Harry seemed to notice Draco’s mood shift. After a moment, he scooted closer to Draco on the floor. “We can do that this year, if you want.”

“Hm?” Draco asked, rising out of his reverie.

“We can exchange presents early. Maybe, as an end-of-exam reward, or something. What do you think?”

Draco fought the way his heart swelled at the suggestion. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Well, usually people care about this sort of thing.”

“Nah. Why should I mind? It’s the same gifts whenever you exchange them, and if it makes you happy to open them earlier, then let’s do it.” He made eye contact with Draco for the first time in what felt like ages, and his gaze was full of sympathy. “Anyway, this is already going to be a strange Christmas for you. I like the idea of keeping up a tradition you’re used to.”

Draco felt his chest go all kinds of warm. Merlin, he loved this boy more than words could express. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That means a lot, Harry.”

Harry flushed and looked away.

“We should incorporate one of your traditions, too, then,” Draco said. “Is there anything you’re used to, that you want us to do this year?”

Harry shrugged and shook his head. “Not really. I never got presents growing up. Being told Happy Christmas and having Mrs. Weasley knit me a jumper is already enough for me.”

Draco felt like ice water had been dumped on him. He stared at Harry, sure his eye might start twitching. The other boy looked nonchalant, like what he’d said weren’t nearly as horrifying as it was.

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, furious and so concerned that he could burst. He sprung forward and captured Harry’s mouth in a kiss, pouring every ounce of devotion he could into it.

Harry squeaked. He seemed to go stiff all over. Draco cupped Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him feverishly, lips working insistently over him. Harry seemed more tense than ever, and had yet to start kissing back.

Draco’s fervor grew with each passing moment that Harry held himself so rigid. Harry was behaving just like he often did, when Draco pointed out how awfully he’d been treated: stoically and awkwardly, like he didn’t expect or deserve any acknowledgement. That was clearly what was going on right now, was why when Draco nipped his bottom lip just the way Harry liked, Harry let out a broken sound, shivering against Draco’s hands, but did not give into the kiss. The Gryffindor was so used to suffering in silence, never being told how much he mattered, that he felt he wasn’t allowed to accept affection. It broke Draco’s heart and drove him mad with indignation.

He refused to let anything deprive Harry of happiness. He’d worship the other boy until the _had_ to accept affection, or Draco would bloody die trying.

Never breaking contact, Draco sat up on his knees, so Harry’s head was tilted upward. He still wasn’t kissing back, but he wasn’t pulling away, either. Honestly, Harry seemed overall fairly unable to move.

Determined to pull him out of whatever stupor he was in, Draco crawled forward and straddled Harry’s lap. That seemed to wake him up—Harry gasped and his hands sprang up to Draco’s hips. Draco leaned into him, stroking Harry’s cheeks with his thumbs, and deepened their kiss.

Perhaps Harry meant to push Draco away, but he didn’t do so. Instead, he just gripped Draco’s shirt tightly and held himself there. And finally, finally, he started kissing back.

Draco sighed, and tilted his head for a better angle. Harry followed the movement, no longer fighting any of it, and his lips sped up. He was responding hungrily now, hands releasing Draco’s shirt to slide underneath it, seemingly of their own accord. Draco let out a quiet moan, and fisted his hands in Harry’s hair to draw him closer.

He felt Harry’s cock swell underneath him. He wondered if Harry noticed, could feel how it pressed against Draco’s body. But he didn’t acknowledge it in any way, just kept kissing Draco insistently and grasping at Draco’s skin anywhere he could touch.

The bulge was hard, persistent, and Draco shivered as he imagined how it would feel if he ground down against it. But he didn’t, not wanting to make Harry upset like he’d been last time. So Draco just kept going as they were, kissing and touching and relishing the feeling of that hard cock against his arse.

Circe… one day. One day they’d take their stupid clothes off and touch each other for real. Draco would have full access to Harry’s cock, and he’d get to put it wherever he wanted. He fantasised about this as they snogged, feeling his body heat as his imagination ran. He soon got lost in it, in the indulgent scenes his mind conjured up and in the overwhelming pleasure of Harry’s physical touch.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that. When they finally came up for air, Draco felt overheated and so turned on he could burst. Harry, meanwhile, was a sight to behold. He looked utterly debauched, hair disheveled, face flushed, and eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. Draco took in this image with extreme pride.

“I…” Draco began.

He trailed off, having no idea how to finish. All he really wanted to say was, _I love you_.

Harry inhaled a deep, shaky breath. He nodded.“So,” he said after a moment. “I should probably get back to wrapping presents.”

“Oh. Okay,” Draco said, climbing off Harry awkwardly. He wondered if Harry would acknowledge either of their erections now, but the brunet didn’t. He wasn’t looking at Draco at all. “How, er… how are you feeling now?”

Harry’s hands clenched against the carpet. “Brilliant. Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I should get back, though. I’ll, er, see you later.”

Harry stood up, wincing slightly. Draco wondered if that had anything to do with how hard he was, and forced himself not to glance at Harry’s groin.

“See you later,” Draco said. “Thanks for the game.”

Harry nodded perfunctorily and headed out.

When he was gone, Draco let out a heavy breath and lay down on the floor. He snuck a hand down and pressed on his erection, which hadn’t flagged in the slightest. He wondered if he was above wanking to the memory of what had just happened, and decided he was not.

He locked his door, prepared some tissues, and undid his trousers. Kneeling, he pushed his trousers and pants down to his knees and took himself in hand. _Fuck_ , that was nice.

His cock was desperately hard, and especially after so long without any relief, heeding its pleas to be touched felt heavenly. Draco stroked himself slowly, letting his mind roam. He imagined Harry’s mouth, Harry’s tongue. Harry’s determined face, and the way it twisted and slackened when he was touched in different ways. Draco’s hand sped up.

He thought of Harry’s hands, how they felt on Draco’s skin. He imagined how strong they were, how they’d feel manhandling his body. He thought of Harry’s cock, too, and remembered how it felt pressed against Draco’s arse. He thought of how that would feel if Draco slicked it up, covered it in lube and rubbed it over… rubbed… over…

With stuttering breath and a choked off cry, Draco came all over his fist and the tissues he’d arranged.

Draco stayed there for a moment, slowly sinking back onto his heels. He panted hard, wondering just how guilty he should feel about what he’d just done.

While it was a bit morally dubious to wank over someone he knew personally, he decided once again that what Harry didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And anyway, who could really blame Draco for this reaction? Draco was only human, after all. He wouldn’t force Harry to get off with him, of course, but surely no jury would convict him for seeking release in the privacy of his room, after such an objectively arousing experience as snogging Harry Potter.

Settled on this, Draco felt better. He set to cleaning away all the evidence of his activities as the rest of his post-orgasmic haze relaxed him.

And, besides, a part of Draco’s mind whispered. If Draco worked really, really hard, maybe he and Harry would get to a point where the Gryffindor wouldn’t even mind such a prospect. Maybe Draco could eventually tell Harry about this, about all of it. And maybe Harry would actually, just maybe, be interested in making those fantasies a reality.

Just thinking about that made Draco’s cock twitch again.

* * * * *

**Harry**

Harry had practically run to his room, and when he’d made it inside he’d nearly slammed the door behind him.

He’d settled for locking the door and collapsing against it, raking his hands through his hair and trying anything to avoid palming his erection. And that was how he stayed for who knew how many minutes: leaning against the door and feeling utterly wrecked, horny, desperate, and miserable.

He’d just snogged Draco again. He’d practically devoured the Slytherin’s face, in point of fact. Right after finding out how badly he needed to curtail this sort of thing with Draco, Harry had thrown himself right back into it. And he’d have done so much more than snog just now if he had even the tiniest shred less self-control….

Part of him wished he’d never learned the truth about their relationship. If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t feel the urgent need to pull away when all he really wanted to do was press closer. Then, he could lose himself in their touches the way he really wanted to, and not realise the degree to which he should feel guilty about it.

But, of course, that part of him was wrong. His behaviour around Draco was immoral, whether Harry was aware of it or not—and therefore, he had better be aware of it, so he could set about regulating it as much as he could.

He couldn’t keep doing this with Draco. He’d nearly said as much to him, too, nearly told Draco all the reasons they had to stop and reevaluate their relationship right then and there. But, he’d forced himself to keep quiet. He knew he had to do it after exams—he couldn’t mess with things until they were over. He and Draco would have all holiday to experiment with a new sleeping dynamic; fucking with Draco’s insomnia right before all their big tests wouldn’t be fair at all. As desperate as Harry was to get this problem solved, he had to admit that much.

And anyway, there was another benefit to waiting. He considered this as he stepped from the door and walked on wobbly legs to the half-wrapped pile of presents. It would be nice for him and Draco to exchange their gifts first, before Harry initiated the conversation that might ruin everything. Draco deserved to enjoy his gifts in peace.

Despite himself, Harry smiled at that thought. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Draco’s face when he got to open his gifts. Anxious though Harry was, about the special gift he had planned, and about everything else going on, he had no doubt that Draco would like what Harry gave him. And, even if Harry totally fucked up the post-exams conversation, and Draco never wanted to speak to him again thereafter, Harry knew he would still want Draco to have it. He loved Draco that much.

He sat down on the floor among the items and began wrapping where he’d left off. He was grateful for the task, because it kept his hands busy. His erection had gone down a fair amount, but not all the way, and it still took a great deal of effort not to reach down and relieve it.

* * * * *

Harry did not come back to see Draco until the absolute latest he could. He had dinner at the Gryffindor table—the Great Hall blissfully empty of Hermione, who had stayed in Hogsmeade to have dinner with Ron—and spent the evening holed up in his room alone. He only knocked on Draco’s door at bedtime, hoping to have as little opportunity as possible to interact with the blond and fuck things up even more.

Draco opened the door and smiled, which was unfairly beautiful. As they crawled into bed and got ready to sleep, they exchanged a few idle pleasantries about their days, and Harry tried to answer as kindly and succinctly as he could. He wanted the conversation to be over as soon as possible, and for sleep to steal his need to think anymore.

Finally, the light was out, and the room was quiet. They burrowed under the covers and Draco pulled Harry’s arm snugly around his waist, threading his fingers through Harry’s.

 _Boyfriends, boyfriends_ , his brain repeated again and again. They were spooning and holding hands and dear Godric they were absolutely boyfriends.

Harry wanted to die. It was too much, and too pleasant. It was absolutely unfair for something to be so pleasant and so criminal all at once.

Draco sighed and adjusted his head on the pillow, bringing his head closer toward Harry’s face. He smelled so good, Harry’s mind thought traitorously. So very good indeed.

He wanted to jump up and yell and perhaps smack himself across the face. But he knew he couldn’t. So he just lay there and tried to take deep breaths. It would be okay. They were just touching because Draco needed it, he reminded himself, Harry’s feelings of immense attraction be damned.

Though still angry and decently upset about this whole mess, Harry knew realistically that there was nothing to be done about it tonight. After exams, he’d begin righting the wrongs of their messed up dynamic. Until then, he figured he might as well just try to calm down and get some sleep.

He breathed in the scent of Draco’s hair and let it relax him. It did the trick, as it often did. Harry couldn’t help but wonder, if he and Draco ended up parting ways, whether Harry would ever get a decent night’s sleep again.

* * * * *

The next morning, they woke up in each other’s arms, and Harry had a moment of pure affection welling in his chest before he remembered his circumstances and cursed in his head. He pulled away from Draco and stood up.

“So,” Harry blurted, just to shatter the room’s intimate silence. “Revision Week officially starts tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” Draco said through a yawn. He sat up more slowly than Harry had, stretching his arms over his head and looking too sexy to be legal. “Feel like we barely need it. We have this in the bag.”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted. “Never been so prepared for exams before.”

“So you’ve said before.” Draco smiled teasingly at him. The smile took about two years off Harry’s life.

Perhaps noticing Harry’s strained look, Draco asked, “Nervous?”

“Not really,” Harry replied, even though he was, just not about exams. “You?”

“No. I feel good.” Draco flashed him another smile, which went straight to Harry’s groin. “Well. What do you want to do today?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer before his brain caught up with his ears and he realised, _Oh, Godric, we literally plan our days around each other… fuck, we are so boyfriends_ ….

“Er,” he began, unnerved by the realisation but unable to change that it was true. “Maybe we can meet in the library this afternoon?”

“Okay,” Draco said. “Do you want to go flying before lunch?”

Harry’s heart leapt at the idea. Yes, he absolutely wanted that.

But, he quickly shut himself down. He should not be spending so much recreational time with Draco. “No, er, I can’t today,” he lied. “I’ll just see you this afternoon.”

He winced at his terribly-delivered response, and even more so at the way Draco’s face fell. “Oh,” Draco said. “Well… all right. I’ll see you later, then.”

Harry nodded, feeling awful. Draco stood up, and he still looked unhappy. “Listen,” Harry said before he could stop himself. Hell, maybe he should just say, fuck it, and go flying anyway. Surely nothing was worth making Draco look so sad, right?

Draco looked up at him expectantly, while his hands went up and began undoing the buttons of his nightshirt. The words, and the saliva, quickly evaporated from Harry’s mouth.

More and more of Draco’s skin became visible as each set of buttons fell away. Harry’s eyes traced the trail, mesmerised by the sight, wondering what would happen if he…

“Yes?” Draco prompted.

Harry realised he’d been staring in silence and cringed, horrified. “I have to gay!” he yelled. “I mean—go. I have to go!”

With that, he tore out of the room and did not look back.

* * * * *

The rest of the day went pretty much as expected, with Harry spending most of his time wallowing.

When afternoon rolled around, he and Draco went to the library, and Harry insisted on silence unless absolutely necessary. Draco looked rather confused at this—no doubt fully aware that this was the opposite of Harry’s preferred revising style—but he respected Harry’s wishes.

They split up for dinner, and Harry threw himself into asking Hermione about school just so she wouldn’t keep trying to pester him about Draco, even though he could tell by the look in her eyes that she still wanted to.

And that night, once again, Harry held Draco close and tried to sleep, knowing he shouldn’t enjoy snuggling as much as he did but powerless to do anything about it.

A week of revising. Then a week of exams. That was all that remained between them and the Conversation. Harry had no idea what that confrontation would entail, and a large part of him would give anything to postpone it indefinitely.

But he could not do that. So, he closed his eyes and soaked up the feeling of Draco in his arms. For a blissful moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if they were boyfriends for real.


End file.
